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LETTEKS AND ESSAYS. 



LETTERS 



AND 



ESSAYS 



IN PROSE AND VERSE. 






■ 






LONDON: 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 



MDCCCXXXIV. 






LONDON : 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 



The Author of the following pages hopes to be excused 
for telling the reader, that they were written during 
a few short intervals of leisure, which he has employed 
rather in deriving instruction and amusement from the 
works of others, than in attempting to afford either by 
his own. 

Several of his Letters having been published without 
his knowledge, he has thought it best to print a few 
others, both in prose and verse. 

Being, of course, in the possession of his friends, 
they might (however insignificant) appear hereafter, 
when he could no longer correct them ; and the dates 
of some will show that he has no time to lose. 
" Vesper * * admonuit." 



CONTENTS. 



PAliE 

TO THE REV. JOHN FELL ....... 1 

ON ENGLISH STYLE 5 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM MR. BURKE TO MR. MURPHY . 15 

TO THE REV. JOHN FELL . .19 

TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT COLLEGE . . . . .24 

TO THE SAME 27 

TO THE SAME 31 

TO THE SAME 38 

TO A LAW STUDENT 43 

TO THE SAME 48 

TO THE SAME 51 

TO THE SAME . . 55 

TO THE SAME ....'... .58 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH . . 61 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TO A YOUNG MAN AT OXFORD 67 

ON POVERTY .73 

ON WAR 79 

ON INTOLERANCE AND BIGOTRY 82 

ON THE PASSIONS 85 

ON POLITICAL AGITATIONS 90 

ON VISITING ACQUAINTANCE 94 

ON A VOICE 97 

ON THE NATURE AND UTILITY OF ELOQUENCE ... 99 

TO MR. HORNE TOOKE 123 

TO THE SAME 128 

TO FRANCIS HORNER, ESQ 132 

TO THE SAME 137 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH . . 141 

TO THE SAME 147 



LETTEES AND ESSAYS, 

« 
&C. &C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN FELL. 

London, Ind February, 1784. 

You will receive, in this and another frank, my preface 
to your Grammar, which I hope you will approve. If 
you do so, pray be good enough to return it by the 
coach ; for the book itself is already printed ; and, as 
you well know, by sad experience, the Devil is a most 
importunate Dun. 

The sentiments I am sure you will not dislike ; but I 
am far from satisfied with the expression, and I must beg 
you to have no mercy. 

Our common object is to do the best we can towards 
preventing the style of the next race of authors from 

B 



2 

being tainted by the pedantry of the present. Indeed 
Johnsonism is now become almost a general disease. 

In the lighter kinds of writing this affectation is par- 
ticularly disagreeable ; and I am convinced that in the 
gravest, aye ! and in the sublimest passages, the simple 
terms and the idioms of our language often add a grace 
beyond the reach of scholarship, increasing, rather than 
diminishing, the elegance, as well as the spirit of the 
diction. 

" Utinam et verba in usu quotidiano posita minus 
" timer emus." 

"He that would write well," says Roger Ascham, 
" must follow the advice of Aristotle, to speak as the 
" common people speak and to think as the wise think." 

In support of this opinion many of the examples cited 
by you are amusing, as well as convincing. The follow- 
ing from a great author may be added — 

" Is there a God to swear by, and is there none to 
" believe in, none to trust to ?" 

What becomes of the force and simplicity of this short 
sentence, when turned into the clumsy English which 
schoolmasters indite and which little boys can con- 
strue ? "Is there a God by whom to swear, and is there 
" none in whom to believe, none to whom to pray ? " 



The Doctor is a great writer and is deservedly admired, 
but he should not be imitated. — His gigantic strength 
may perhaps require a vocabulary that would encumber 
feebler thoughts: but it is very comical to see Mr. B. 
and Dr. P. strutting about in Johnson's bulky clothes ; 
as if a couple of Lilliputians had bought their great coats 
at a rag-fair in Brobdignag. 

Cowley, Dryden, Congreve, and Addison are our best 
examples ; for Middleton is not free from Gallicisms. 
Mr. Burke's speeches and pamphlets (although the style 
is too undisciplined for a model) abound with phrases in 
which homeliness sets off elegance and ease adds grace 
to strength. 

How your neighbour, the " dilectus lapis " will smile 
to hear Milton's practice appealed to ! Yet what can 
he say to the following specimens, taken at random while 
I am now writing ? 

" Am I not sung- and proverb'd for a fool 

" In every street ? Do they not say how well 

" Are come upon him his deserts ? " 

" Here rather let me drudge and earn my bread." 

" Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake 
" My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint. 
" At distance I forgive thee — go with that." 

b2 



4 



" Abortive as the first-born bloom of spring 
" Nipt with the lagging rear of winter's frost." 

" I was all ear, 
" And took in strains that might create a soul 
" Under the ribs of death." 

" So ! farewell hope ; but with hope farewell fear, 
" Farewell remorse : all good to me is lost ; 
" Evil be thou my good." 

Shakespeare I need not quote, for he never writes ill, 
excepting when he means to be very fine, and very 
learned. 

Fortunately our admirable translation of the Scriptures 
abounds with these native terms of expression, and it is 
admitted to be almost as pure an authority for English as 
for doctrine. 

I begin, already, to look forward to my annual week's 
holiday at Thaxted, where I shall hear you expound 
them for both purposes. 



ON ENGLISH STYLE.* 

During the last thirty or forty years, English lite- 
rature has been enriched with many valuable compo- 
sitions in prose and in verse. Many wise and learned 
men have made use of our language in communicating 
their sentiments concerning all the important branches of 
science and art. All kinds of subjects have been skil- 
fully treated in it, and many works of taste and genius 
have been written with great and well-deserved success : 
yet perhaps it will appear, upon a careful view of these 
compositions, that whatsoever credit their authors are 
entitled to, for acuteness of understanding, strength of 
imagination, delicacy of taste, or energy of passion; there 
are but few of them that deserve the praise of having ex- 
pressed themselves in a pure and genuine strain of Eng- 
lish. In general they have preferred such a choice, and 
arrangement of words, as an early acquaintance with 
some other language, and the neglected study of their 

* Printed in 1784 as the Preface to an " Essay on English 
Grammar." 



6 

own, would naturally incline them to. Sometimes also 
we find them expressing a mean opinion of their native 
tongue. This, however, I am the less inclined to wonder 
at, as I am convinced that those only can speak of our 
language without respect, who are ignorant of its nature 
and qualities. Perhaps it is as capable of receiving any 
impressions that a man of taste and genius may chuse to 
stamp upon it, and is as easily moulded into all the 
various forms of passion, elegance, and sublimity, as any 
language, ancient or modern. 

Some men of eminence in letters, having seen how well 
the fashionable world has succeeded in imitating the man- 
ners of the French, have endeavoured to raise themselves 
into reputation by importing their forms of speech ; and, 
not contented with the good old English idiom, have 
dressed out their works in all the tawdriness of French 
phraseology. 

But this injudicious fashion of adulterating our lan- 
guage with foreign mixtures, is more especially the case 
with respect to the Latin ; to the laws of which, many of 
our writers, and indeed some also of our grammarians, 
have so strenuously endeavoured to subject our language, 
that Brown's prophecy, in the preface to his " Vulgar 
Errors," is at length come to pass, and "we are now 



" forced to study Latin, in order to understand English." 
The complaint is not new, though the practice com- 
plained of is now become more frequent, and more 
extensive than ever. Our elegant and idiomatic satirist 
ridicules that 

" easy Ciceronian style 



" So Latin, yet so English all the while." 

Pope's Epilogue to Satires. 

Not only Latin words, but Latin idioms, are now invading 
us with so much success, that, do what we can, I fear we 
must submit to the yoke, and as our country was formerly 
compelled to become a province of the Roman empire, so 
must our language sink at last into a dialect of the Roman 
tongue. This event has been much hastened of late 
years. Some men, whose writings do honour to their 
country and to mankind, have, it must be confessed, 
written in a style that no Englishman will own : a sort 
of anglicized Latin, and chiefly distinguished from it by a 
trifling difference of termination ; yet so excellent are 
these works, in other respects, that a man might deserve 
well of the Public who would take the trouble of trans- 
lating them into English. As I do not notice these alter- 
ations in our language, in order to commend them, I shall 
not produce any particular instances. I shall content 



myself with supporting the fact by the evidence of a truly 
respectable critic, now living. In the preface to his ex- 
cellent Dictionary, he says, " so far have I been from any 
" care to grace my page with modern decorations, that 
" I have studiously endeavoured to collect my examples 
" and authorities from the writers before the Restoration, 
" whose works I regard as the wells of English undefiled ; 
" as the pure sources of genuine diction. Our language, 
" for almost a century, has, by the concurrence of many 
" causes, been gradually departing from its ancient Teu- 
" tonic character, and deviating towards a Gallic structure 
" and phraseology ; from which it ought to be our endea- 
" vour to recal it ; by making our ancient volumes the 
" groundwork of our style, admitting among the additions 
" of later times, only such as may supply real deficiencies; 
" such as are readily adopted by the genius of our tongue, 
" and incorporate easily with our native idioms." 

In his preface to the works of Shakespeare, we also 
find the following very applicable sentiments : " I believe 
" there is in every nation, a style that never becomes 
" obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant 
" and congenial to the principles of its respective language, 
" as to remain settled and unaltered. 

" The polite are always catching modish innovations, 



" and the learned depart from established forms of speech, 
" in hopes of finding or making better; those who wish 
" for distinction, forsake the vulgar when the vulgar is 
" right ; but there is a conversation above grossness and 
" below refinement, where propriety resides, and where 
" Shakespeare seems to have gathered his comic dialogue. 
" He is therefore more agreeable to the ears of the pre- 
" sent age than any other author equally remote, and 
" among his other excellencies deserves to be studied as 
" one of the original masters of our language." These 
passages I have inserted, because such a testimony from 
this great man will at least be thought impartial by every 
person acquainted with the characteristics of his style. 

The alterations in our language here mentioned, are 
certainly not for the better : they give the phraseology a 
disgusting air of study and formality : they have their 
source in affectation, not in taste : yet novelty has its 
attractions, and what Quintilian says of Seneca's works, 
may be fairly applied to our later English writers : " In 
" eloquendo corrupta pleraque, et eo perniciosissima, 
" quod abundabant dulcibus vitiis." Though these exotic 
terms and phrases are not really better than our home- 
bred English ; yet their newness gives them a spurious 
sort of beauty : though they do not really enrich the dress 



10 

of our thoughts, yet they are a kind of tinsel ornaments 
admired because they glitter and glare. The writers 
I allude to may perhaps have succeeded in giving our 
language a higher polish ; but have they not also curtailed 
and impoverished it ? Perhaps they may have cleared it 
of some cant terms, low phrases, and awkward construc- 
tions : but what they may have gained in accuracy, have 
they not lost in variety ? Have they not reduced all kinds 
of composition to an insipid uniformity? Is not the spirit 
of our language lowered, its freedom cramped, and its 
range of expression narrowed ? 

I shall not be required to prove this opinion by such of 
my readers as are acquainted with the works of Hooker, 
Taylor, Swift, Pope, Addison, and Dryden; with the 
prose of Cowley, and with Shakespeare's " immortal wit." 
However, the prevalence of fashion is so strong, that all 
resistance to this adulteration of our language may be in- 
effectual ; and it is well worthy of notice, that every polite 
nation, hitherto distinguished in literature, has, after a 
certain period, declined in taste and purity of composi- 
tion. The later Greek writers are known by the dimi- 
nutive term, " Graaculi," and the Augustan age denotes 
an sera before the Latin tongue was vitiated and spoiled 
by vain refinements and affected innovations. To prevent 



11 

a similar decline of the French language, the French 
Academy has endeavoured to render it at once more pure 
and more durable : but the republic of letters is a true 
republic, in its disregard to the arbitrary decrees of 
usurped authority. Perhaps such an institution would 
do still less with us. Our critics are allowed to petition, 
but not to command : and why should their power be 
enlarged ? The laws of our speech, like the laws of our 
country, should breathe a spirit of liberty : they should 
check licentiousness, without restraining freedom. The 
most effectual method of preserving our language from 
decay, and preventing a total disregard to the Saxon part 
of it, is to change our present mode of education. 

Children are generally taught the grammar of a foreign 
tongue before they understand that of their own ; or if 
they chance to be instructed in the principles of their 
native tongue, they learn them from some system that 
does little more than fetter it with the rules of construc- 
tion drawn from another language. Dr. Lowth, in his 
preface, has taken notice of this circumstance. 

" A grammatical study of our own language makes no 
" part of the ordinary method of instruction which we 
" pass through in our childhood, and it is very seldom 
" that we apply ourselves to it afterwards. 



12 

" Yet the want of it will never be effectually supplied 
" by any other advantages whatsoever. — Much practice 
" in the polite world, and a general acquaintance with the 
i( best authors are good helps ; but alone will hardly be 
" sufficient; we have writers who have enjoyed these 
" advantages in their full extent, and yet cannot be recom- 
" mended as models of an accurate style — Much less 
" then will, what is commonly called learning, serve the 
t( purpose ; that is, a critical knowledge of ancient lan- 
ic guages, and much reading of ancient authors. The 
" greatest critic and most able grammarian of the last age, 
" was frequently at a loss in matters of ordinary use and 
" common construction in his own vernacular idiom." 

The design of the following work is to teach the 
grammar of the English tongue; not by arbitrary and 
capricious rules ; and much less by such as are taken from 
the customs of other languages; but by a methodical 
collection of observations, comprising all those current 
phrases and forms of speech, which are to be found in 
our best and most approved writers and speakers. It is 
certainly the business of a grammarian to find out, and 
not to make, the laws of a language. In this work the 
Author does not assume the character of a legislator, but 
appears as a faithful compiler of the scattered laws. He 



13 

does not presume to regulate the customs and fashions of 
our speech, but only notes and collects them. 

It matters not what causes these customs and fashions 
owe their birth to ; the moment they become general, they 
are laws of the language ; and a grammarian can only 
remonstrate, how much soever he disapprove. From his 
opinions and precepts an appeal may always be made to 
the tribunal of use, as to the supreme authority and last 
resort: in language, as inlaw, " communis error facitjus." 
By the general consent of a nation, certain sounds and 
certain written signs, together with their inflections and 
combinations, come to be used as denoting certain ideas 
and their relations ; and the man that chuses to deviate 
from the custom of his country in expressing his thoughts, 
is as ridiculous as though he were to walk the streets in 
a Spanish cloak, or a Roman toga. Perhaps he might 
say, these garments are more elegant and more commo- 
dious than a suit of English broad cloth ; but I believe 
this excuse would hardly protect him from derision and 
disgrace. 

Besides the principal purpose for which this little book 
was written (that of instructing youth), I hope the perusal 
of it may not be useless to those that are already ac- 
quainted with polite literature. Much reading and good 



14 



company are supposed to be the best methods of getting 
at the niceties and elegancies of a language ; but this 
road is long and irksome. It is certainly a safer and a 
readier way to sail by compass than to rove at random ; 
and any person who wished to become acquainted with 
the various productions of nature, would do better to 
study the systems of our best naturalists, than to go wan- 
dering about from land to land, lighting here upon one, 
and there upon another, merely out of a desire to see 
them all. I hope also this book may be useful to those 
foreigners that wish to learn the English tongue ; it 
being intended to contain all our most usual Anglicisms : 
all those phrases and peculiarities, which form the cha- 
racteristics of our language. I will not take upon me 
to say that we have no grammar capable of teaching a 
foreigner to read our authors ; but this I am sure of, that 
we have none by which he can be enabled to understand 
our conversation. 



15 



ADDITION, 1834,— Extract of a Letter from Mr. BURKE 
to Mr. MURPHY. 

" There is a style which daily gains ground amongst 
" us, which I should be sorry to see farther advanced by 
" the authority of a writer of your just reputation. The 
" tendency of the mode to which I allude is, to establish 
" two very different idioms amongst us, and to introduce 
" a marked distinction between the English that is 
" written, and the English that is spoken. This practice, 
" if grown a little more general, would confirm this 
" distemper, (such I must think it) in our language, 
" and perhaps render it incurable. 

" From this feigned manner, or falsetto, as I think the 
" musicians call something of the same sort in singing, no 
" one modern historian, Robertson only excepted, is per- 
" fectly free. It is assumed, I know, to give dignity and 
" variety to the style; but whatever success the attempt 
" may sometimes have, it is always obtained at the ex- 
" pense of purity, and of the graces that are natural and 
" appropriate to our language. It is true, that when the 
" exigence calls for auxiliaries of all sorts, and common 



16 

" language becomes unequal to the demands of extra- 
" ordinary thoughts, something ought to be conceded to 
" the necessities which make i Ambition Virtue ;' but 
" the allowances to necessities ought not to grow into 
" a practice. These portents and prodigies ought not to 
" grow too common." 



TO MR. HENDERSON. 

London, 1785. 

I went, as I promised, to see the new " Hamlet," 
whose provincial fame had excited your curiosity as well 
as mine. 

There has not been such a first appearance since yours : 
yet Nature, though she has been bountiful to him in 
figure and feature, has denied him a voice — of course he 
could not exemplify his own direction for the players to 
" speak the speech trippingly on the tongue," and now 
and then he was as deliberate in his delivery as if he had 
been reading prayers, and had waited for the response. 

He is a very handsome man, almost tall and almost 
large, with features of a sensible, but fixed and tragic 






17 

'cast — his action is graceful, though somewhat formal ; 
which you will find it hard to believe, yet it is true. Very 
careful study appears in all he says and all he does ; but 
there is more singularity and ingenuity, than simplicity 
and fire. Upon the whole, he strikes me rather as a 
finished French performer, than as a varied and vigorous 
English actor; and it is plain he will succeed better in 
heroic, than in natural and passionate tragedy. Excepting 
in serious parts, I suppose he will never put on the 
sock. 

You have been so long without a " brother near the 
throne," that it will perhaps be serviceable to you to be 
obliged to bestir yourself in Hamlet, Macbeth, Lord 
Townley, and Maskwell ; but in Lear, Richard, FalstafT, 
and Benedict, you have nothing to fear, notwithstanding 
the known fickleness of the public and its love of 
novelty. 

I think I have heard you remark (what I myself have 
observed in the History of the Stage), that periodical 
changes have taken place in the taste of the audience, or 
at least in the manner of the great performers. Some- 
times the natural and spirited mode has prevailed, and 
then the dignified and declamatory. Betterton, eminent 
both in comedy and tragedy, appears to have been an 
c 



18 

instance of the first. Then came Booth and Quin, who 
were admired for the last. Garrick followed, restoring 
or re-inventing the best manner, which you have also 
adopted so fortunately and successfully. Mr. Kemble 
will be compelled, by the hoarse monotony of his voice, to 
rely upon the conventional stateliness that distinguished 
Garrick's predecessors, which is now carried to inimitable 
perfection by his accomplished sister. 

You see that I have been much amused by this town- 
made incident, a first-appearance ; but, believe me, I had 
much rather have been angling with you at Marlow, even 
though without a bite. I had rather laugh at your 
" quips and cranks," than hook the largest perch in 
the Thames, 






19 



TO THE REV. JOHN FELL. 

January 1, 1788. 

My cold, my obstinate cold, has been so exasperated 
by some Christmas-indiscretions, as to be malicious 
enough to confine me to the house ; and I foresee but 
little chance of my sleeping under your roof for many 
nights to come. I must therefore reply to your questions 
by the penny post, although what I have to say is not 
worth a farthing. 

First, however, let me wish you many, many happy 
new years in the discharge of your untried duties ; for I 
reckon your experience at Thaxted as of little or no 
service to you at Homerton. It is a far more difficult 
task to teach those who are to be teachers themselves, 
than to correct the exercises of a few little lay-boys. 
Now your business is very , serious. I know that it is 
the high office of another to instruct the students in 
theology; but I am certain that their residence with a 
man of your learning, energy, and reputation, will render 
your influence, in forming their characters and their creed, 

c 2 



20 

much more effectual than the most orthodox lectures on 
the thirty-nine articles. — To speak out too, he appears 
to me to be but a dry sort of a wet-nurse ; and besides, 
he may, perhaps, like some of his brother professors, fall 
fast asleep in his chair, and do neither good nor harm. 
To unlearn is harder than to learn, and the Grecian 
flute-player was right in requiring double fees from those 
pupils who had been taught by another master. " I am 
" rubbing their father out of my children as fast as I 
' e can," said a clever widow of rank and fashion. 

It is fortunate for you, in some respects, that the young 
people in your interesting family are not the spoilt 
children of rich or distinguished parents. If Fenelon 
did succeed, as it is recorded he did, in educating the 
Dauphin, his success was little less than a miracle. How 
can any man, though of advanced age and of high repu- 
tation, perhaps also of a sacred profession and of elevated 
station, be expected to preserve any useful authority over 
a child (probably a wayward little animal,) if he, the 
tutor, must always address the pupil by his title, or at 
least must never forget that he is heir to a throne ? 

I do not deny that the habits of the young who have 
been brought up in poverty may present obstacles of 
another kind; and I believe that some, who enter the 



21 

ministry, may be tempted by the desire of being reckoned 
gentlemen. This jealous and irritable sort of vanity calls 
both for tenderness and for correction. 

Education cannot do all that Helvetius supposes, but 
it can do much. — " Elle fait danser Tours." It is said 
that some insects take the colour of the leaf that they 
feed upon. — " I was common clay till roses were planted 
in me," says some aromatic earth in an eastern fable. 

What passed at our hospitable bookseller's table, last 
week, naturally excited your attention ; and I will, as you 
desire, try to borrow the Swiss gentleman's letter respect- 
ing education from Dr. Knox. Emulation has been at 
all times relied upon as a chief instrument in education, 
and now comes a philosopher of great experience who 
discourages the use of it. Certainly, if the mere passion 
for truth could do the business ; if young men could be 
expected to fall desperately in love with " the beauty of 
theorem," the results would be of exceeding value, both 
in kind and in degree. — Can this be trusted to ? Alas, no ! 

One practice, however, can be reformed, that of giving 
prizes and commendations only to those who get on the 
fastest. 'Tis the endeavour, the struggle, the obedience, 
that should be praised and rewarded. Then a child will 
not be disheartened by difficulties, nor humiliated by 



failure ; because, when he does his best, he will be sure 
of approbation. Otherwise, as soon as he is passed in 
the race by his competitors, he will be inclined to lie 
down in the dust, with his little heart full of despair, and 
perhaps full of envy too. 

There was one observation which we agreed in — I 
never did expect much from merely didactic lectures. 
Knowledge cannot be truly ours till we have appropriated 
it by some operation of our own minds. The best writers 
on property in land attribute that right to the first pro- 
prietor's having blended his own labour with the soil. — 
Something like this is true of intellectual attainments. 
For example, surely the best mode of teaching moral 
philosophy would be by giving each pupil a set of ques- 
tions : such as — 

" Why should truth be spoken?" 
" Why should a promise be kept, and a debt paid ? " 
" What is the meaning of the word ought ?" 
The learners should, indeed, be told that many different 
answers have been given in all ages ; and the most cele- 
brated as well as the most satisfactory authors should be 
pointed out to them. But they should select their own 
answers ; after being encouraged to reflect as well as to 
read. 






Behold what you have brought upon yourself by the 
grave and urgent air of your enquiries, and by not 
waiting till we could take a turn together in your garden 
of gardens; where "cum una, mehercule, ambulatiuncula, 
atque uno sermone nostro, omnes provincise fructus non 
confero ; " addicted as I am to the distant mountains. 



21 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT COLLEGE. 

Fredley Farm, July 29, 1806. 

Well ! you have left St. Paul's, and have settled your- 
self at Cambridge, with your heart full of hopes and 
brave resolutions. You well know that I not only wish, 
but that I am anxious for, your success in life ; and I 
have confidence in your capacity. However, my favour- 
able anticipations arise chiefly from your being aware 
that your station in society must depend entirely on your 
own exertions. Luckily you have not to overcome the 
disadvantage of expecting to inherit, from your father, 
an income equal to your reasonable desires ; for, though 
it may have the air of a paradox, yet it is truly a serious 
disadvantage when a young man, going to the bar, is 
sufficiently provided for. 

" Vitam facit beatiorem 
Res non parta, sed relicta," 

says Martial, but not wisely ; and no young man should 
believe him. 



25 

The Lord Chief Justice Kenyon once said to a rich 
friend asking his opinion as to the probable success of a 
son, " Sir, let your son forthwith spend his fortune ; 
" marry, and spend his wife's ; and then he may be 
" expected to apply with energy to his profession." 

In your case I have no doubts, but such as arise from 
my having observed that, perhaps, you sometimes may 
have relied rather too much on the quickness of your 
talents, and too little on diligent study. Pardon me for 
owning this, and attribute my frankness to my regard. 

It is unfortunate when a man's intellectual and his 
moral character are not suited to each other. The horses 
in a carriage should go the same pace and draw in the 
same direction, or the motion will be neither pleasant 
nor safe. 

Buonaparte has remarked of one of his marshals, 
" that he had a military genius, but had not intre- 
pidity enough in the field to execute his own plans ;" and 
of another he said, " He is as brave as his sword, but he 
wants judgment and resources ; neither," he added, " is 
to be trusted with a great command." 

This want of harmony between the talents and the 
temperament is often found in private life ; and, wherever 
found, it is the fruitful source of faults and sufferings. 



26 

Perhaps there are few less happy than those who are 
ambitious without industry ; who pant for the prize, but 
will not run the race ; who thirst for truth, but are too 
slothful to draw it up from the well. 

Now this defect, whether arising from indolence or 
from timidity, is far from being incurable. It may, at 
least in part, be remedied by frequently reflecting on the 
endless encouragements to exertion held oufby our own 
experience and by example. 

" C'est des difficultes que naissent les miracles." 

It is not every calamity that is a curse, and early 
adversity especially is often a blessing. Perhaps Madame 
de Maintenon would never have mounted a throne had 
not her cradle been rocked in a prison. Surmounted 
obstacles not only teach, but hearten us in our future 
struggles ; for virtue must be learnt, though unfortunately 
some of the vices come, as it were, by inspiration. The 
austerities of our northern climate are thought to be the 
cause of our abundant comforts ; as our wintry nights and 
our stormy seas have given us a race of seamen, perhaps 
unequalled, and certainly not surpassed by any in the 
world. 

" Mother," said a Spartan lad going to battle, " my 



27 

" sword is too short." " Add a step to it," she replied ; 
but it must be owned that this was advice to be given 
only to a Spartan boy. They should not be thrown into 
the water who cannot swim — I know your buoyancy, and 
I have no fears of your being drowned. 



TO THE SAME. 



Fredley Farm, August 3, 1806. 

You should not listen to # * * *, but prefer, without 
hesitation, a life of energy to a life of inaction. There 
are always kind friends enough ready to preach up 
caution and delay, &c. &c. Yet it is impossible to lay 
down any general rules of a prudential kind. Every case 
must be judged of after a careful review of all its circum- 
stances ; for if one, only one, be overlooked, the decision 
may be injurious or fatal. Thus there ever will be many 
conflicting reasons for and against a spirit of enterprise 
and a habit of caution. 

Those who advise others to withstand the temptations 
of hope will always appear to be wiser than they really 
are ; for how often can it be made certain that the rejected 



28 

and untried hazard would have been successful ? Besides, 
those who dissuade us from action have corrupt but 
powerful allies in our indolence, irresolution, and 
cowardice. To despond is very easy, but it requires 
works as well as faith to engage successfully in a difficult 
undertaking. 

There are, however, few difficulties that hold out against 
real attacks ; they fly, like the visible horizon, before those 
who advance. A passionate desire and an unwearied will 
can perform impossibilities, or what seem to be such to 
the cold and the feeble. If we do but go on, some unseen 
path will open among the hills. 

We must not allow ourselves to be discouraged by the 
apparent disproportion between the result of single efforts 
and the magnitude of the obstacles to be encountered. 
Nothing good nor great is to be obtained without courage 
and industry ; b ..t courage and industry must have sunk 
in despair, and the world must have remained unorna- 
mented and unimproved, if men had nicely compared the 
effect of a single stroke of the chisel with the pyramid to 
be raised, or of a single impression of the spade with the 
mountain to be levelled. 

All exertion too is in itself delightful, and active amuse- 
ments seldom tire us. Helvetius owns that he could 



29 

hardly listen to a concert for two hours, though he could 
play on an instrument all day long. The chase, we know, 
has always been the favourite amusement of kings and 
nobles. Not only fame and fortune, but pleasure is to 
be earned. 

Efforts, it must not be forgotten, are as indis- 
pensable as desires. The globe is not to be circum- 
navigated by one wind. We should never do nothing. 
" It is better to wear out than to rust out," says Bishop 
Cumberland. " There will be time enough for repose in 
the grave," said Nicole to Pascal. In truth, the proper 
rest for man is change of occupation. 

As a young man, you should be mindful of the unspeak- 
able importance of early industry, since in youth habits 
are easily formed, and there is time to recover from 
defeats. An Italian sonnet justly, as well as elegantly 
compares procrastination to the folly of a traveller who 
pursues a brook till it widens into a river and is lost in 
the sea. The toils as well as risks of an active life are 
commonly overrated, so much may be done by the dili- 
gent use of ordinary opportunities ; but they must not 
always be waited for. We must not only strike the 
iron while it is hot, but strike it till " it is made hot." 



30 

Herschel the great astronomer declares that ninety or 
one hundred hours, clear enough for observations, cannot 
be called an unproductive year. 

The lazy, the dissipated, and the fearful, should pa- 
tiently see the active and the bold pass them in the course. 
They must bring down their pretensions to the level of 
their talents. Those who have not energy to work must 
learn to be humble, and should not vainly hope to unite 
the incompatible enjoyments of indolence and enterprise, 
of ambition and self-indulgence. I trust that my young 
friend will never attempt to reconcile them. 



31 



TO THE SAME. 

London, February 4, 1808. 

I am glad to hear of your gaining the prize; and, to say 
the truth, I am better pleased that you owe it to your 
proficiency in Latin prose than in Latin verse. Not that 
I think, as many do, that too much time is spent at our 
great schools in the latter, but it appears to me that too 
little time is given to the former. 

Considering that the Roman language is not only that 
of the classical writers, but, formerly, was that of law and 
of philosophy, it is plain that the motives are many and 
strong for attaining an habitual facility of understanding 
the tongue wherein such inestimable works have been 
written. Perhaps, too, the practice of writing is indis- 
pensable as the preparation for reading without difficulty. 

Yet I desire that you should not misunderstand me. 
It is neither my intention nor my wish to undervalue 
poetry, nor even the custom of making verses in a living 
or a dead language. I do not know any means of 
becoming so intimately acquainted with the powers of a 



32 

language as by composing verses. The restraints of 
metre, and the necessity of selecting expressions that are 
not only clear but elegant, compel an author to vary and 
eni'ich his phraseology by every allowable idiom. No ! 
not one even of the abstrusest sciences calls for more 
severe attention, nor more subtle distinctions ; and surely 
none requires the fancy and the feeling, without which 
verse is of so little worth that it is not sterling, but 
merely a kind of plated prose. Do not think, therefore, 
that you are wasting your time in the exercises demanded 
of you at college, although you are intended for a grave 
and laborious profession, busied in the noisy highways of 
real life, and leading far away from the quiet field-paths 
of literature and philosophy. 

To talk to you about the high rank or the principles 
of poetry is quite needless. No subject has been treated 
of by abler writers. Yet, as you wish to recall some 
parts of our last long conversation, I will again mention 
a short forgotten passage of an author, who was made 
ridiculous by the humorous attacks of Swift and Pope. 
Dennis says, somewhere, of poetry, " It should be simple, 
sensuous, and passionate." 

Perhaps the word " sensuous "is not sufficiently autho- 
rised, but, no matter ! you will not find elsewhere so brief 



33 

and so complete an enumeration of the chief qualities in 
the noblest art *. 

There are also in Priestley's Lectures on Oratory some 
excellent remarks, beginning thus : — " In order thoroughly 
" to interest a reader, it is of singular advantage to be 
" very circumstantial, and to introduce as many sensible 
" images as possible." 

Your own memory cannot fail to suggest many proofs 
of this maxim ; but I must warn you not to fall into the 



* Note, 1884. In Gray's Common-place-book is the following 
striking passage :— " In former times, they loved, I will not say 
" tediousness, but length, and a train of circumstances in a narration. 
" The vulgar do so still : it gives an air of reality to the facts, it 
" fixes the attention, raises and keeps in suspense their expectation, 
" and supplies the place of their little and lifeless imagination ; and 
*' it keeps pace with the slow motion of their own thoughts. Tell 
" them a story as you would to a man of wit ; it will appear to them as 
" an object seen in the night by a flash of lightning : but when you 
" have placed it in various lights, and various positions, they will 
" come at last to see and feel it as well as others. But we need not 
" confine ourselves to the vulgar, and to understandings beneath our 
" own. Circumstance ever was and ever will be the essence both of 
" poetry and oratory. It has in some sort the same effect upon every 
" mind that it has upon that of the populace ; and I fear the quickness 
" and delicate impatience of these polished times are but the forerun- 
" ners of the decline of all those beautiful arts which depend upon the 
" imagination ***** Homer, the father of Circumstance, has 
" occasion for the same apology." 



34 

common error of supposing that sensible images mean 
allusions to the object of sight only. — Voltaire goes so 
far as to say," Toute metaphore doit etre une image qu'on 
" puisse peindre. C'est une regie qui ne soufTre point 
" d'exception ; " and Pope seems to have been misled 
too often in the choice of epithets by this mistake. One 
instance you may remember my noticing, where he thus 
renders a line in the first book of the Iliad — 

" Then in the sheath returned the shining blade," 

which Dryden had translated far more spiritedly and 
more characteristically of the impetuous hero — 

" And in the sheath reluctant plunged the blade : " 

Do you not hear the hilt ring against the cover? 

Let me mention, as an instance of a touching allusion 
to another sense, a couplet of a celebrated living poet 
describing some children at play among the tombs — 

" Alas ! unconscious of the kindred earth, 
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth." 

Take too a whole stanza from the " Annus Mirabilis," 
chiefly for the sake of one little word — 

" As those who unripe veins in mines explore, 
" On the rich bed again the warm turf lay, 

" (Till Time digests the yet imperfect ore,) 
" Knowing it will be gold another day." 



The word " passionate " needs no explanation ; but you 
must not forget poetry should be " simple," and though 
it must be allowed to magnify its objects and to brighten 
their colours, it ought not to change their forms and 
proportions. It may exaggerate, but must not distort. 

This warning is much needed ; for, of the three quali- 
ties, simplicity is most frequently forgotten by the writer, 
though not by the reader. It is easier, you know, to 
make a Venus fine than beautiful. 

Ambitious but feeble writers in prose and in verse 
are often hyperbolical, and for the sake of being thought 
" imaginative," pour forth redundant and inconsistent 
metaphors ; though such extravagance is scarcely less 
opposed than weakness is to sublimity ; as exaggeration 
is a more mischievous enemy to truth than contradic- 
tion — 

" Mais l'audacc est commune, et le bon sens est rare, 
" Au lieu d'etre piquant, souvent on est bizarre." 

M ixed metaphors are a sure proof of a feeble imagina- 
tion, since a distinct and vivid conception of one image 
cannot be confused with another ; — a simile beginning 
with a fire could not end in a flood. 

There is another kind of offence against simplicity 
d2 



36 

which should be shunned: though it occurs often in 
Johnson, and though the abstract terms, affected by him, 
give a kind of false pomp to the style, assuming the air 
of personification. He thus commences his imitation of 
the Tenth Satire of Juvenal : — 

" Let observation, with extensive view, 
" Survey mankind from China to Peru." 

Dryden and Pope would have been satisfied with the 
second line, and would have avoided both the tautology 
and pomposity of the first. 

Cowper has committed the same fault when he 
exclaims — 

" Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness I 
" Some boundless contiguity of shade ! " 

He should have stopped at the end of the first line ;.or, 
if he wished to dwell on the intensity of the retirement, 
he should have rejected the swollen word " contiguity.'* 
Even " some boundless and impenetrable shade " would 
have been better. 

All affectation and appearance of effort are as disagree- 
able in poetry as insipidity, though that is certainly 
the sin (never to be forgiven) against its Spirit. Its 



37 

character, its very essence, being to give pleasure, all its 
subordinate qualities must be estimated in subservience 
to this necessity. Thus it is requisite that the diction 
should not only be perspicuous, and select, and animated, 
but also melodious; and, when we talk of poetical prose, 
we mean that some of the other excellencies of poetry are 
there ; but it is implied that one great beauty is absent, 
the music of the metre — 

" Et vera incessu patuit Dea." 

Luckily for me, though verse is obliged to be enter- 
taining, a letter is not ; for it may be both long and dull, ^P 
if sent in the hope of doing service, and when the writer 
can truly subscribe himself, as I do now, 

" Affectionately yours." 



38 



TO THE SAME. 

22nd May, 1809. 

" Io ti vedo" — You are found out. It is easy to see, 
through all your letters, that the hot verse-fit of the 
intermittent is strong upon you ; else you would not be so 
importunate for my counsel. Under the pretext of seek- 
ing advice, you indulge your love by talking about its 
object. 

Your self-distrust is a good symptom. Very few can 
be eminent in the most delightful and difficult of all arts ; 
and none, who are well satisfied with themselves, can be 
expected to satisfy others. 

I should not be your friend if I did not dissuade you 
from making the inevitable sacrifice of all other pursuits 
to the " idle trade — " 

" Where once such fairies dance no grass doth grow." 

Yet I have encouraged your trying to bend the bow 
of Ulysses, for better reasons than because I hoped you 
to perform a miracle impossible to any but the inspired. 

Patient study is requisite ; but, the more I think, the 



39 

more am I convinced that in poetry an irresistible and 
peculiar genius is indispensable. In this art an industry 
that never sleeps can do much; but gifts, natural gifts, 
can do much more. A little difference in native genius, 
when augmented by practice, is like a small superiority 
in the first number of a geometrical series. 

I will not say the same of any other intellectual effort ; 
but in writing verse the first thoughts should always be 
respected, perhaps preferred. 

You beg for more instances to explain a remark in my 
last letter. They are to be found in every page of your 
Homer. Perhaps circumstantiality is the chief distinction 
between Greek and Latin poetry ; between first and 
second-rate excellence. Dante and Shakespeare also 
abound in particulars drawn from every sense. 

I am inclined to think as you do of Dryden and Pope. 
The former seldom seems to do his very best ; the latter 
always. Of course the reader ranks Dryden above his 
works, but not so as to Pope. Yet, to be honest, let me 
ask who does not read the latter's verses most frequently, 
and remember them better too ? Indeed we have them 
by heart. 

As to the imitative words that you speak of, you need 
not trouble yourself about them. " Suiting the sound 



40 

"to the sense " has another and a better meaning, but 
it will seldom be graceful unless unsought. Milton is 
very happy, or very skilful, in this flow of metre harmo- 
nising with the sentiment and the description. Thus 
Satan 

" Throws his steep flight in many an aery whirl " 

" Lights on his feet, as when a prowling wolf 
" Leaps o'er the fence with eas"e Into the fold." 

" Sin towards the gate rolling her bestial train." 

" Celestial voices to the midnight air 

" Sole, or responsive to each other's notes." 

For these, and indeed for all the beauties of poetry, 
believe me, that it is safer to trust to one's unconscious 
and unaffected habits of thinking and feeling, than to the 
best rules gathered even from the greatest examples. Such 
habits are the last result of all our mental associations. 
No maxims can be subtle nor comprehensive enough to 
guide invention. 

In spite of the critics, the general favourites have ever 
been those who excel rather in spirit and variety, than 
in elaborate execution ; though, in the rare instances 
where both unite, the poet is worshipped, and the work 
immortal. 

Gray, it must be owned, is a consummate workman in 



41 

every respect, but in failing to preserve that bewitching 
air of freedom and facility for whose absence there is no 
full compensation. 

There is something similar to this in our hand-writing. 
A painted letter, as it is called, can never be taken for 
one flowing from the first stroke of the pen. This 
opinion, notwithstanding, should not hinder previous 
study and much practice ; since it relates only to the 
moment of actual composition. " You charge me fifty 
" sequins," said a Venetian nobleman to a sculptor, 
" for a bust that cost you only ten days' labour.''' — 
" You forget," replied the artist, " that I have been 
" thirty years learning to make that bust in ten 
" days." 

Of merely verbal figures little needs be said, though 
the ablest writers (Cicero especially) use them freely. 

You were struck, I remember, by old Lydgate's daring 
repetition of one word, in speaking of a child — 

" Fair is not fair enough for one so fair." 

Such forms of speech are displeasing when they are 
evidently contrived, though they add both force and 
elegance when they present themselves to the mind. It 
sometimes happens that a perfect symmetry, a formality 



42 

in the phrase, a daring metaphor, an hyperbole, are 
the most natural and proper expression of the thought 
or sentiment. " Quanto piii sodezza tanto piu splen- 
" dore." These beauties should be neither sought nor 
shunned. 

Indeed too much anxiety about expression defeats 
itself. It may as well be expected that a dancer always 
thinking of the five positions should move with ease and 
grace, as that an author should write agreeably, who is 
fettered by habitual self-criticism. It is no paradox to 
say that the perfection of style is to have none, but to 
let the words be suggested by the sentiments, un- 
checked by the monotony of a manner and untainted 
by affectation. 



43 



TO A LAW STUDENT. 

20th June, 1817. 

So you have been several times in the gallery of the 
House of Commons, and were both delighted and 
disappointed. This is just what I expected. Judging 
of the speakers by a preconception of the possibilities 
of the art, they are found wanting ; but comparing them 
with each other, the differences in merit are extreme. 

With your expectations raised by reading Demosthenes 
and Cicero, and by the warmth of party-praise, what 
wonder that, at first, even the very best were not equal 
to your anticipations ? 

You need not to be told that the general principles of 
any art must be modified so as to suit the maxims and 
the habits of the assembly, where they are to be put in 
practice. 

The House of Commons is so different a body in its 
construction and in its purposes from any, either ancient 
or modern, that its idioms, both of thought and of 
language, must be caught before a man can talk in such 
a manner as to be liked, or even understood. 



44 

It is a place of serious business ; and all ostentation, 
if perceptible, is ridiculous. Perhaps one or two 
individuals may be tolerated and allowed to amuse, 
merely by ornament, or by wit and humour; but an 
attempt to succeed in this way is ruinous to a new 
member. It is unfortunately necessary to have something 
to say, and facts or striking arguments the House will 
always listen to, though delivered in any terms, however 
homely, or with any accent, however provincial. Speeches 
also for constituents are heard with indulgence, if not too 
frequent, nor too long : but debate, real debate, is the 
characteristical eloquence of the House ; and be assured 
that the India-house, a vestry, a committee, and other 
meetings of business, are far better preparatory schools 
for parliament than debating societies are. In these latter 
self-possession and fluency may be learnt ; but vicious 
habits of declamation, and of hunting for applause, are 
too often formed. I remember being told, that in the 
first meetings of a society at a public school, two or 
three evenings were consumed in debating whether the 
floor should be covered with a sail-cloth or a carpet ; and 
I have no doubt that better practice was gained in these 
important discussions, than in those that soon followed 
on liberty, slavery, passive obedience, and tyrannicide. 



45 

It has been truly said, that nothing is so unlike a 
battle as a review. 

As an illustration of this spirit of serious business, 
I must mention a quality, which, presupposing great 
talents and great knowledge, must always be uncommon ; 
but which makes an irresistible impression on a public 
assembly of educated men. I mean the merit of stating 
the question in debate fairly ; and I mean it as an 
oratorical, and not merely as a moral, superiority. Any 
audience, but especially an educated and impatient 
audience, listens with a totally different kind and 
degree of attention to a speaker of this character, and 
to one, who, tempted by the dangerous facility of a 
feebler practice, either alters, or weakens, or exag- 
gerates the language and sentiments of his adversary. 

Mr. Fox was an illustrious example of this honestest, 
best, and bravest manner: nay, sometimes he stated 
the arguments of his opponents so advantageously, that 
his friends have been alarmed lest he should fail to 
answer them. His great rival formerly, and another 
accomplished orator now living, have seldom ventured 
on this hazardous candour. In truth, the last mentioned 
possesses too many talents ; for, betrayed by his singular 
powers of declamation and of sarcasm, he often produces 



46 

more admiration than conviction, and rarely delivers an 
important speech without making an enemy for life. 
Had he been a less man he would be a greater speaker, 
and a better leader in a popular assembly. 

This good faith in controversy not only manifests, 
but nourishes also another great oratorical excellence, — a 
hearty love of the subject and a deep sense of the public 
welfare, prevailing over that self-regard and desire of 
victory, inseparable, in some degree, from the infirmity 
of human nature. 

It is not without some misgiving that I perceive with 
how much more interest you talk of parliament than of 
chancery. It is very usual and very natural to prefer the 
former. Let me entreat you to consider well. I have 
heard one of the ablest and most efficient men in this 
country (actually at the time the chosen leader of the Op- 
position, enjoying the fame of such a station, and looking 
forwards, doubtless, to high office) own, more than once, 
with much emotion, that he had made a fatal mistake in 
preferring parliament to the Bar. At the Bar he well 
knew that he must have risen to opulence and to rank, 
and he bitterly regretted having forsaken his lawful wife, 
the profession, for that fascinating but impoverishing 
harlot, politics. 



47 

If you should abandon your Penelope and your home 
for Calypso, remember that I told you of the advice 
given, in my hearing, at different times to a young lawyer, 
by Mr. Windham, and by Mr. Home Tooke — not to look 
for a seat till he had pretensions to be made Solicitor- 
general. 

Yours is so laborious a calling, and your competitors 
are so many and so keen, that not only ambition but 
amusement tempts many to quit the Inns of Court ; and I 
have known several very able young men drawn aside by 
making a single continental tour, during the long vaca- 
tion. A passion for travelling has overcome both pru- 
dence and the love of distinction. 

You will now understand why I was glad to hear 
that you are going with your sisters, no farther than 
to Brighton. There Coke and Blackstone will help you 
profitably (and why not pleasantly ?) through the hot 
hours in the middle of the day ; and, if you should take 
the siesta, you will dream of being Lord Chancellor or 
Lord Chief Justice. 



48 



TO THE SAME. 

2nd December, 1817. 

If your low spirits arise from bodily illness (as is often 
the case), you must consult Dr. Baillie. I can do nothing 
for you. Perhaps you should fast a little, and walk and 
ride. But if they are caused by disappointment, by 
impatience, or by calamity, you can do much for yourself. 
The well-known, worn-out topics of consolation and of 
encouragement are become trite, because they are reason- 
able, and you will soon be cured, if you steadily persevere 
in a course of moral alteratives. 

You have no right to be dispirited, possessing as you 
do all that one of the greatest, as well as oldest sages has 
declared to be the only requisites for happiness — a sound 
mind, a sound body, and a competence. 

An anxious, restless temper, that runs to meet care on 
its way, that regrets lost opportunities too much, and 
that is over-pains-taking in contrivances for happiness, 
is foolish, and should not be indulged. 

" On doit etre heureux sans trop penser a l'etre." 



49 

If you cannot be happy in one way, be happy in 
another ; and this facility of disposition wants but little aid 
from philosophy, for health and good-humour are almost 
the whole affair. Many run about after felicity, like an 
absent man hunting for his hat, while it is on his head, 
or in his hand. 

Though sometimes small evils, like invisible insects, 
inflict great pain, yet the chief secret of comfort lies in 
not suffering trifles to vex one, and in prudently cultivat- 
ing an under-growth of small pleasures, since very few 
great ones, alas ! are let on long leases. 

I cannot help seeing that you are dissatisfied with your 
occupation, and that you think yourself unlucky in having 
been destined to take it up, before you were old enough 
to chuse for yourself. Do not be too sure that you 
would have chosen well. I somewhere met with an ob- 
servation, which, being true, is important — that in a mas- 
querade, where people assume what characters they like, 
" how ill they often play them !" Many parts are pro- 
bably preferred for the sake of the dress ; and do not many 
young men enter into the navy or army, that they may 
wear a sword and a handsome uniform, and be acceptable 
partners at a ball ? Vanity is hard-hearted, and insists 
upon wealth, rank, and admiration. Even so great a 



50 

man as Prince Eugene owned (after gaining a useless 
victory), that (( on travaille trop pour la Gazette." Such 
objects or pursuits are losing their value every day, and 
you must have observed that rank gives now but little 
precedence, except in a procession. 

But I am really ashamed even to hint at such endless 
and obvious commonplaces, and I shall only repeat the 
remark, which seems to have struck you — that in all the 
professions, high stations seem to come down to us, 
rather than that we have got up to them. 

But you, forsooth, are too sensible to be ambitious ; 
and you are, perhaps, only disheartened by some unfore- 
seen obtacles to reasonable desires. Be it so ! but this 
will not justify, nor even excuse, dejection. Untoward ac- 
cidents will sometimes happen ; but, after many many years 
of thoughtful experience, I can truly say, that nearly all 
those, who began life with me, have succeeded, or failed 
as they deserved. " Faber quisque fortunse propriae." 

Ill fortune at your age is often good for us, both in teach- 
ing and in bracing the mind ; and even in our later days 
it may often be turned to advantage, or overcome. 
Besides, trifling precautions will often prevent great mis* 
chiefs ; as a slight turn of the wrist parries a mortal 
thrust. 



51 

Forgive me for talking in this lecturing manner. Am 
I doing you wrong? Am I, unawares, increasing the 
uneasiness that I am most anxious to dispel ? I am 
not without some fear that I am galling the wound 
which I wish to heal. Once more, forgive me ; and 
be assured that I am, &c. &c. 



TO THE SAME. 



January 7, 1818. 

I certainly did not wish that you should starve 
yourself, or run about, like a penny postman, either on 
foot, or on horseback ; for moderation is not only the law 
of enjoyment, but of wholesome labour too. 

You have begun to adopt new habits with the zeal 
of a repentant convert, and, as you have great speed, it 
is of consequence that you should travel in the right 
road. 

I rejoice to hear that you have already subdued and 
cast out the blue devils that beset you. Some men 
are possessed by another, and a more dangerous kind, 

e2 



52 

which enter the voluptuous, the vain, the idle, and the 
unprincipled; but they must be exorcised by stronger 
forms of incantation, and you are not likely to be 
assaulted by such evil spirits. A German says, that 
" Luther knew what he was about when he threw his 
"ink-stand at Satan's head, for there is nothing the 
" Devil hates like ink." 

You are luckily not framed for idleness, and you 
are therefore in no danger of being led aside from the 
shortest, the safest, and the pleasantest path to happi- 
nesSj which, you may be sure, is soonest found by 
those that live a life of action and of duty. This is 
almost preaching, I know, " mais c'est jour de sermon," 
— for you have teased me into mounting the pulpit. Sit 
down, therefore, and hear me patiently. The discourse 
shall be very short, and you must not attribute my 
advice to self-sufficiency, for it is often founded on my 
own past mistakes. 

It would be needless to repeat what I wrote, long 
since, to a friend of yours and mine, since you have 
read those letters recommending industry and perse- 
verance ; yet I ought to confess that though you may 
look to your understanding for amusement, it is to 



53 

the affections that we must trust for happiness. These 
imply a spirit of self-sacrifice ; and often our virtues, 
like our children, are endeared to us by what we 
suffer for them. Conscience, even when it fails to 
govern our conduct, can disturb our peace of mind. 
Yes! it is neither paradoxical, nor merely poetical, 
to say 

w That seeking others' good, we find our own." 

This solid, yet romantic maxim, is found in no less 
a writer than Plato; who, sometimes, in his moral 
lessons, as well as in his theological, is almost, though 
not altogether, a Christian. 

But this truth does not stand in need of support 
from authority. The days and nights of every tender 
mother abound with instances of this encouraging fact. 
She will not only endure any toil, but brave any 
danger, for the sake of her helpless child — 

" Oh ! femmes c'est a tort qu'on vous nomme timides, 
" A la voix de vos cceurs vous etes intrepides." 

No! human nature is not so wholly selfish as it is 
represented, by Rochefoucault and by Swift. 

Satirical writers and talkers are not half so clever as 
they think themselves, nor as they are thought to be. 



54 

They do winnow the corn, 'tis true, but 'tis to feed 
upon the chaff. 

I am sorry to add that they who are always speaking 
ill of others, are also very apt to be doing ill to them. 

It requires some talent and some generosity to find out 
talent and generosity in others, though nothing but self- 
conceit and malice are needed to discover, or to imagine 
faults. — It is much easier for an ill-natured than for a 
good-natured man to be smart and witty — 

" S'il n'eut mal parle de personne, 
" On n'eut jamais parle de lui." 

The most gifted men that I have known have been 
the least addicted to depreciate either friends or foes. — 
Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, and Mr. Fox, were always 
more inclined to overrate them. Your shrewd, sly, 
evil-speaking fellow is generally a shallow personage, 
and, frequently, he is as venomous and as false when he 
flatters as when he reviles — He seldom praises John 
but to vex Thomas. 

Do not, pray do not ! "sit in the seat of the 
" scorner," whose nature it is to sneer at every thing but 
impudent vice, and successful crime. By these he is 
generally awed and silenced. 

Are these poor heartless creatures to be envied? Can 



i 

55 

you think that the Due de Richelieu was a happier man 
than Fenelon ? or Dean Swift than Bishop Berkeley ? 
You know better. You are not accustomed to turn the 
tapestry that you may look at the wrong side. 



TO THE SAME. 



January 22, 1818. 

You are audience enough for me. I would rather be 
of some service to you than harangue successfully at a 
public meeting, as multitudinous as that which we attended 
the other day at Freemasons' Hall. 

You travel very fast in imagination : you have a long 
sight, and see the road a long way before you. That 
exquisite dialogue, " De Senectute," seems to have made 
you wish to be, at once, as old as Cato, that you may 
enjoy his pleasures and exhibit his skill in the best of all 
arts, the art of living. 

Do not wait, however ; but, as you run along, snatch 
at every fruit and every flower growing within your reach: 
for, after all that can be said, youth, the age of hope and 
admiration, and manhood, the age of business and of 



56 

influence, are to be preferred to the period of extinguished 
passions and languid curiosity. At that season our hopes 
and wishes must have been too long dropping, leaf by 
leaf, away. The last scenes of the fifth act are seldom 
the most interesting either in a tragedy or a comedy. 
Yet many compensations arise as our sensibility decays. 

" Time steals away the rose 'tis true, 
" But then the thorn is blunted too." 

Though I like much better than these humiliating 
thoughts the spirit of Montaigne's sturdy determination, 
" Les ans peuvent m'entrainer, mais a reculons ! " 

On this subject I have read a letter written by a dis- 
tinguished clergyman, from which I send you an extract. 

" Certainly, if a man loses his leg, he need not. fear 
" corns. As to the abstract question of boyish or manly 
t( happiness, I own I think differently of it according to 
" the temper I am in, or (after the French philosophers) 
" according to the state of my digestion. 

" I have no recollection in my boyish days of quiet 
" happiness, but of many fears, perturbations, &c, and a 
" continual longing for the dignity and the independence 
" of the manly state. Now that I am a man and verging 
" towards an old one, I find my vessel suffers but little 



57 

" from the short gusts and ripplings of the passions ; but 
" is borne along under a tattered sail by the steady trade- 
" wind of solicitude. When I was a boy, my pleasures 
" and cares were selfish ; now I care and think more for 
" others than for myself. Here I exult in some little 
" advantage from the comparison ; and yet, after all, the 
" prospect is the chief subject of comparison. That of a 
" boy is full of change and novelty. That of an elderly 
" man admits of little variety and no novelty, but the 
" great one of all — a new existence ! The conclusion of 
" this long sermon is, that a thoughtful boy may be happy 
" without religion, but a thoughtful man cannot." 

I can add nothing to this worth your reading, so fare- 
well ! and may you live long enough to feel that the 
writer has not over-rated the delights of an old man in 
looking forward to a better world ! 



58 



TO THE SAME. 

November 8, 1819. 

You are desirous, I see, that I should not fancy my 
letters are tiresome : and I, therefore, once more assure 
you that our correspondence cannot be irksome to me so 
long as I can hope that it may be serviceable to you. 

Of one thing pray be certain, that every person should 
retain the indisputable right of following or disregarding 
advice ; inasmuch as a man himself must be far better 
acquainted than another can be, with his own inmost 
wishes and real capabilities. 

It is at once an odious and a ridiculous kind of tyranny 
to take it ill of a friend that he judges for himself in the 
last resort. " Ah ! if he had but followed my advice," 
" I told him what must happen," and all such betrayings 
of wounded vanity, are proofs that good sense and good 
will have both been wanting. 

Indeed, if a selfish and conceited man's object is to 
gain a character for sagacity, he should be glad when his 
counsel has been disregarded. Human life is so liable 
to unforeseen troubles that, whatsoever course may be 



59 

pursued, we shall often regret the lot that we have chosen. 
As a bachelor I can be no judge of a known saying, " If 
" you marry, or if you do not marry, you will repent." 
But this will serve as a specimen of the general language. 
Herein, however, we must avoid the opposite and pre- 
vailing evil practice of asking advice for the sake only of 
stealing a sanction, or a help to our own predetermina- 
tions. I was sincerely pleased by the frankness of a 
young lady, who, being urged to consult me respecting 
an offer of marriage, replied, " Why should I wait ? My 
" mind is made up, and I will not use an old friend so 
" ill as to trouble him for advice which I shall not be 
" guided by." 

It would not be easy to mention any habit more per- 
nicious than that of listening or reading with a secret 
resolve to reject, or to elude every opinion that does not 
suit our own inclinations. Immediate obedience should 
follow the decisions of the understanding and the stimulus 
of benevolent emotions. One of the most serious objec- 
tions to pathetic works of fiction is that they tend to 
create a habit of feeling pity or indignation, without 
actually relieving distress or resisting oppression. 

Oh ! it is very easy to cherish, like Sterne, the sensi- 



60 

bilities that lead to no sacrifices and to no inconvenience. 
Most of those that are so vain of their fine feelings are 
persons loving themselves very dearly, and having a 
violent regard for their fellow creatures in general, 
though caring little or nothing for the individuals about 
them. Of sighs and tears they are profuse, but niggardly 
of their money and their time. Montaigne speaks of a 
man as extraordinary " Qui ait des opinions supercelestes, 
" sans avoir des mceurs souterreines." In Butler's 
profound discourses, and in a sermon of Priestley " on 
" the duty of not living to ourselves," these counterfeits 
of sterling benevolence are well detected and exposed. 

Nearly akin to this habit of taking advice without 
following it, and of dissevering action from sympathy, 
is the practice of the irresolute in deliberating without 
deciding — " What I cannot resolve upon in half an hour," 
said the Due de Guise, " I cannot resolve upon at all.'* 
In the memoirs of the Cardinal du Retz, you will find 
many amusing and instructive instances of the conspirators 
shrinking from the painful necessity of decision* 

It is unwholesome as we'll as unpleasant to stand 
shivering on the brink of a cold-bath — I am glad that 
you have plunged. Don't you feel a glow of self- 



61 

satisfaction when you put on your gown and wig ? Some- 
body says, " Sweet is the sleep that follows suspense." 
Now that you have actually been called, I need not say 
" Good night." 



TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

Fredley, 10th September, 1812. 

I do not wonder that you should be embarrassed and 
delayed by the extreme difficulty of giving a narrative 
form to the materials collected, and to the reflections that 
must have occurred to a man of your philosophical 
turn. 

As we walked up Kirkston some weeks ago, you will 
perhaps recollect that I quoted imperfectly (what I 
shall now copy) a passage from Hobbes's remarkable pre- 
face to his translation of Thucydides. 

" The principal and proper work of history being 
" to instruct, and enable men by the knowledge of 
" actions past to bear themselves prudently in the 
" present, and providently towards the future, there is 
" not extant any other (merely human) that doth more 



62 

1 fully and naturally perform it than this of my author. 
* It is true, that there be many excellent and profitable 
' histories written since ; and in some of them, there be 
f inserted very wise discourses both of manners and 
' policy : but being discourses inserted, and not of the 
' contexture of the narration, they indeed commend the 
' knowledge of the writer, but not the history itself; the 
6 nature whereof is merely narrative. In others, there 
' be subtile conjectures at the secret aims and inward 
' cogitations of such as fall under their pen ; which 
' is also none of the least virtues in a history, where the 
1 conjecture is thoroughly grounded, not forced to serve 
' the purpose of the writer in adorning his style, or 
1 manifesting his subtilty in conjecturing. But these 
' conjectures cannot often be certain, unless withal so 
' evident that the narration itself may be sufficient to 
' suggest the same also to the reader. But Thucydides 
' is one, who, though he never digress to read a lecture, 
' moral or political, upon his own text, nor enter into 
' men's hearts, further than the actions themselves 
' evidently guide him, is yet accounted the most 
' politic historiographer that ever writ. The reason 
' whereof I take to be this : he fllleth his narrations 
' with that choice of matter, and ordereth them with 



63 

" that judgment, and with such perspicuity and efficacy 
" expresseth himself, that (as Plutarch saith) he maketh 
" his auditor a spectator. For he setteth his reader in 
" the assemblies of the people, and in the senates, at 
" their debating ; in the streets, at their seditions ; and in 
" the field, at their battles ! So that look how much 
" a man of understanding might have added to his 
" experience, if he had then lived a beholder of their 
" proceedings, and familiar with the men and business 
" of the time ; so much almost may he profit now, by 
" attentive reading of the same here written. He may 
" from the narrations draw out lessons to himself, and 
" of himself be able to trace the drifts and* counsels of 
" the actors to their seat.' 1 

You observed, and I admitted, that the truth is here 
somewhat exaggerated. It would require infinite 
dexterity, as well as a continual sacrifice of vanity, to 
write in this manner ; but, so far as it is attainable, how 
instructive and delightful ! 

Even Hume, who tells his story so well, is often 
ostentatious of his opinions, and becomes rather a 
philosophical commentator than a skilful historian. 
So does a greater writer still, Burke, both in his 
" Account of the European Settlements," and in his 



64 

masterly " Fragment of English History ;" but he never 
is deficient in vivacity and variety. One source of both 
these excellencies may be found in the judicious practice 
of borrowing freely from the original writers and from 
the documents of the times, altering the expression only 
by discarding obscure, uncouth, and redundant words. 

How striking is this short passage, in a speech of 
Edward the Fourth to his Parliament ! " The injuries 
" that I have received are known everywhere, and the 
" eyes of the world are fixed upon me to see with what 
" countenance I suffer." 

If actual events could often be related in this way, 
there would* be more books in circulating libraries than 
romances and travels. 

This lively and graphic style is plainly the best, 
though now and then the historian's criticism is wanted 
to support a startling fact, or to explain a confused 
transaction. Thus the learned Rudbeck, in his " Atlan- 
" tica," ascribing an ancient temple in Sweden to one of 
Noah's sons, warily adds " 'twas probably the youngest." 
You will, of course, hasten to study his book — it is only 
in four volumes folio. 

I cannot help adding, that if you will read, with a 
pencil in your hand, more than one celebrated historian, 






65 

you will be surprised to find yourself marking so many 
grave observations, worthy of the cautious Swede. 

There is one grand incident in our own annals, 
presenting the means of producing a work at least as 
interesting and instructive as any public story, ancient or 
modern. You know that I mean the establishment of 
American independence. Do I say too much in speaking 
of this as the principal event in all civil history ? 

Only think of the magnitude and the nature of the 
question at issue ; of its consequence as an example ; of 
the successful termination of the struggle ; of the elevated 
and accomplished actors both in the United States and 
in England. The battle was as much fought at home 
as abroad; and some of the combatants were the King, 
Lord Chatham, Lord North, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, 
General Washington, Dr. Franklin, and Mr. Jefferson. — 
Think, too, of the Manifestoes, the Proclamations, the 
Declaration of Independence ; and " last not least," of 
the Speeches, which would furnish abler and more 
authentic examples of eloquence than are found in 
Thucydides, Livy, or Tacitus. These dramatic docu- 
ments have always been the allowed and admired 
ornaments of history. 

One surprising instance, equally honourable to the 

F 



66 

speaker and to the assembly that bore it, is the famous 
exclamation of Lord Chatham, — " My Lords ! I rejoice 
" that America has resisted." Do not forget that this 
man had been minister, and meant to be minister again. 

Oh! how I shall regret if these random thoughts 
should add to your perplexities, instead of exciting you 
to burst through them ! Not one syllable of our mountain- 
talk would I have recalled to your recollection, if you 
had not owned that you had yet to begin. 

For my own gratification, I would much rather have 
your " Lectures" than " the History," but not so feel 
the public ; to whom you have made a promise, or are 
thought to have made one. — A seat in the House of 
Commons, while it must improve your manner, by 
substituting the tone of business for that of dissertation, 
will, alas! encroach upon your leisure, and perhaps 
endanger your health. 

When you come hither to restore the latter, pray 
bring all the papers that you can want, for the barn will 
hold what the cottage cannot. 



GT 



TO A YOUNG MAN AT OXFORD. 

London, May 17$, 1825. 

Your mother tells me, that she approves of your going 
this summer to Ambleside, accompanied by some other 
students, to read with a tutor. 

I have seen with much pleasure that it has of late 
become usual with the young mathematicians, hoping for 
" honours," to spend the vacation in this manner. Such 
a place of residence is even more suitable to those 
delighting in classical literature; for what can agree 
better than poetry with the woods and mountains ? The 
bards are ever avowing their passion for the country, and 
you must have remarked the same in the finest prose- 
writers. Pliny owns, in a letter to Tacitus, that at Rome 
" poemata quiescunt; quae tu inter nemora et lucos com- 
" modissime perfici putas." The following passages in 
the 9th and 10th Sections of the celebrated dialogue 
"de causis corruptae eloquentiae," leave little doubt 
as to its author, notwithstanding the long and learned 
disputes on the subject. " Adjice quod poetis, si modo 

F 2 



68 

" dignum aliquid elaborare et efficere velint, relinquenda 
" conversatio amicorum et jucunditas urbis, in nemora et 
11 lucos recedendum est." — * * * * " Nemora vero, et luci, 
" tantam mihi afferunt voluptatem, ut inter praecipuos 
" carminum fructus numerem, quod nee in strepitu, nee 
" sedente ante ostium litigatore, nee inter sordes ac lacry- 
" mas reorum componuntur: sed secedit animus in loca 
" pura atque innocentia, fruiturque sedibus sacris." 

I hope you mean to be an indefatigable student, 
though you talk of visiting all the lakes. — Yet beware! 
it is pleasanter to sail about than to read at home. 
However, it will give me pleasure to learn that the hints 
which you request, have saved your time, and prevented 
needless fatigue. 

The guides are not always to be trusted, for they 
naturally wish to keep you as long as they can ; and, 
too often, they arrange the journey with a view to dine 
at the most comfortable, or the most grateful inn. 

You will pass so near to the beautiful scenery of 
Bolton Abbey, that I advise you to employ one day, 
at least, in visiting the walks and drives made by the 
clergyman of the place. — Sit down on every seat in the 
valley of the Wharfe and in Posforth glen, whose brook 
falls into the river. —The water-fall has much beauty. 



69 

The inn is excellent, but small ; and you should write to 
bespeak beds, (using my name if you please) to 
Mr. Wilson, Devonshire Arms, Bolton Bridge, near 
Addingham, Yorkshire. 

Get out of your carriage on the bridge at Kirby 
Lonsdale, to look up and down the stream, and to walk 
by the foot-path to the Church-yard. 

Sleep at Bowness, which is the port-town of Winder- 
mere. 

The views from Rayrig-bank (about three quarters 
of a mile distant) are superlative. 

Row to the Ferry-house, going as close as you can 
to Storrs, that you may see both its fronts. 

At the Ferry, ascend to the Station-house. 

Stop a day at Lowwood Inn, that you may walk on 
the bowling-green, and up the Trout-beck Lane till you 
see the lower end of the lake. The best view, however, 
is only one hundred yards up the lane. 

At Ambleside, you will have time enough to visit 
every interesting spot over and over again. 

You should go daily to the water-fall behind the 
Salutation Inn, and almost as frequently cross the 
meadows leading to a wooden bridge over the Rotha, 



70 

in order to walk up the stream to Rydale. It runs 
about coquetting with you all the way, " now advancing, 
" now retreating." 

At Rydale, see the water-falls in the Park ; and, 
as you are fortunate enough to have a letter to Mr. 
Wordsworth, you will probably see his grounds, which 
are admirably laid out. The terraced foot-path from 
the garden-gate to Grasmere is delightful. 

Ride by Clappersgate, and Loughrig-tarn, to Grasmere. 

The upper end of Coniston-water should be seen. 

The road to Keswick abounds in beauties. 

Get out of your carriage to look about at a very 
little common called " Browtop." It is half a mile 
before entering the town. 

Walk to Friar's Cragg, and do not forget to ascend 
the swelling-field, close by, called " Strand-hag." — 
Just at the top of this gentle ascent, at the gate, are 
four or five views, as different as they are striking. 
What a spot for a house or a pavilion ! " Oh ! si 
angulus ille !" The lake seems to belong to the lawn. 

Walk by the parsonage to Ormathwaite, or rather to 
the field on the left of the house. 

Ride to Borrodale, seeing Barrow and Lodoar 



71 

waterfalls, and proceed by Gatesgarth to Buttermere. 
Here, while the dinner is being dressed, walk to 
Cromack Lake ; and see Scale-force, if you have time. 

Return to Keswick by Newlands. 

The higher end of Wast-water is very grand, but I 
do not like to send you on so long a pilgrimage. There 
is a short horse-path over the Sty-head, but it introduces 
you to the scenery disadvantageously. 

You can ride from Keswick to Ulleswater over the 
mountain (saving some distance) ; but you must not lose 
your way, as I once did in a fog. 

Stop at Lyulph's Tower ; and, after sitting by the 
Ara-force, go up the torrent nearly half a mile, crossing 
the wooden bridge, which hangs over the fall. A path 
has been made by Mr. Howard, who is good enough to 
allow strangers to walk there. 

From the front of Mr. Marshall's place (Hallstead) is 
the noblest lake and mountain-view in the north. 

You must see the walks in Mr. Askew's grounds. 

Near to Patterdale-hall is a waterfall. 

The slate-quarries command fine views ; and if you 
have time, you should walk up the Gold-rill to Beck- 
stone's Farm, and to Hartsop village. For nearly a 
mile above Hartsop-W/, the brook should be explored. 



72 

Having seen Wharfe-dale as you went, you had best 
return by Wensley-dale, Hackfall and Studley, unless 
you wish to see Liverpool, and the rail-road just com- 
menced. 

You will have observed that I trouble you with few 
remarks and fewer exclamations, supposing that you will 
travel with your eyes open. 

The most complete description of the lakes is Mr. 
Wordsworth's, but it has higher merits than mere 
accuracy. Gray's letters, though he saw but little, are 
exquisite. 

There are two mistakes often made by travellers in 
the North and on the Continent : that of loitering on 
the road to visit inferior places before they reach the 
Lakes, or the Alps ; and that of wasting time and 
strength in hunting after novelty, instead of dwelling 
on the noblest scenes and getting them by heart. Much 
needless toil is undergone to fill the journal and the 
sketch-book. Madame de Stael complained to me, at 
Coppet, that she was often annoyed by travellers, who, 
as they had nothing to say to her, must have come 
merely to record the visit in their diaries, or add a 
paragraph to their letters. 



ON POVERTY. 

In De Rulhiere's Anecdotes of the Revolution in 
Russia, there is a short story exemplifying that decay 
of the ancient respect for rank, and that growth of a 
regard for wealth, so observable of late in most parts 
of the world. 

Odart, a Piedmontese conspirator for Catharine, used 
to say, "I see there is no regard for any thing but 
" money, and money I will have. I would go this night 
" and set fire to the palace for money ; and when I had 
" got enough, I would retire to my own country, and 
" there live like an honest man." More than once the 
Empress offered him a title : " No, Madam, I thank 
" you," said Odart; " money, money, if you please. 

He did get money, went to Nice, and there he is 
said to have lived as became a gentleman. 

Since this over-estimate of wealth is almost universal, 
it can be no wonder that the rich are so vain and 
the poor so envious. I know that it is only repeating 



the tritest of common-places to observe that both 
exaggerate its advantages. 

" Je lis au front de ceux qu'un vain faste environne, 
" Que la Fortune vend ce qu'on croit qu'elle donne." 

It must, however, be owned, that the greatest are 
willing enough to consider the humblest as their fellow- 
creatures, when they stand in need of their help. A 
prince in danger of being drowned would not wonder at 
being saved by the humanity of a common sailor ; and a 
General, before a battle, addresses his " brave fellow- 
soldiers." Indeed many persons do the poor the honour 
of expecting them to be spotless. Too often is it 
deemed a good excuse for refusing them alms that they 
have failings like our own. 

There are many advantages in this variety of condi- 
tions, one of which is boasted of by a divine, who 
rejoices that, between both classes, " all the holidays 
" of the Church are properly kept ; since the rich 
" observe the feasts, and the poor observe the fasts." 

To be more serious, it is fortunate for the Christian 
world that our public worship tends at once to abase 
the proud, and to uplift the dejected ; while a similar 
effect results in a free country from its elections, 
where the haughtiest are obliged to go hat in hand 



/o 



begging favours from the lowliest. Nor should the lofty 
be ashamed, for it has so happened that the best 
benefactors of the human race have been poor men ; 
such as Socrates and Epaminondas ; such as many of 
the most illustrious Romans, and the inspired founders 
of our Faith. 

Among the North American Indians a wish for wealth 
is even now considered as unworthy of a brave man, 
and the Chief is often the poorest man of the tribe. 

Mr. Burke says truly, " The people maintain the 
" government, and not the government the people. 
" The rich are the pensioners of the poor. They 
" are under an absolute hereditary and indefeasible 
" dependence on those who labour. That class of 
" dependent pensioners called ' the rich' is so extremely 
" small, that if their throats were cut, all they consume 
" in a year would not give a bit of bread and cheese 
" for one night's supper to those who labour." 

Bossuet, in one of his best sermons, has the following 
characteristic passages: 

" Je dis done, 6 riches du siecle ! que vous avez tort 
" de traiter les pauvres avec mepris : nous trouverions 
" peutetre, si nous voulions monter a l'origine des choses, 
" qu'ils n'auroient pas moins de droit que vous aux 



76 

biens que vous possedez. Non, non, 6 riches, ce n'est 
pas pour vous seuls, que Dieu fait lever son soleil, 
' ni qu'il arrose la terre, ni qu'il fait profiter dans son 
' sein une si grande diversite de semences ; les pauvres 
' y ont leur part aussi bien que vous. J'avoue que Dieu 
' ne leur a donne aucun fonds en propriete, mais il leur a 
' assigne leur subsistence sur vos biens. 

" Quelle gloire, en verite, chretiens, si nous la savions 
' bien comprendre ! Par consequent, bien loin de les 
' mepriser, vous les devriez respecter, les considerant 
1 comme les .personnes que Dieu vous adresse et vous 
' recommande. Vive Dieu ! dit le Seigneur, (' c'est 
' jurer par moimeme) le ciel et la terre et tout ce qu'ils 
' renferment est a moi. Vous etes obliges de me rendre 
' la redevance de tous vos biens, mais certes, pour moi, je 
' n'ai que faire ni de vos offrandes, ni de vos richesses ; 
' je suis votre Dieu et n'ai pas besoin de vos biens. Je ne 
' peux souffrir de necessite qu'en la personne des pauvres 
' que j'avoue pour mes enfans : c'est a eux que j'ordonne 
1 que vous payiez, fidelement, le tribut que vous me 
1 devez. Que si on les refuse, si on les maltraite, il 
' n'entend pas qu'ils portent leurs plaintes par devant 
' des juges mortels : lui meme il ecoutera leurs cris 
1 du plus haut des cieux ; comme ce qu'il est du aux 



77 

" pauvres, ce sont ses propres deniers, il en a reserve la 
" connoissance a. son tribunal. C'est moi qui les vengerai, 
" dit il : je ferai misericorde a ceux qui leur fera mise- 
" ricorde, je serai impitoyable a qui sera impitoyable 
" pour eux. 

" Merveilleuse dignite des pauvres ! la grace, la mise- 
" ricorde, le pardon est entre leurs mains : et il y a des 
" personnes assez insensees pour les mepriser !" 

There is, notwithstanding, so little danger that the 
indigent will be made supercilious by such considerations 
that it is needless to remind them of the disadvantages of 
their condition. The twofold danger of being starved 
both by hunger and by cold is enough ; but there is 
another inferiority, which it is most painful to reflect 
upon. It is this. When a child is taken from an 
opulent mother, she comforts herself by saying, " I 
" thank God that all that could be done has been done 
" to save it ;" but the grief of a poor woman is heightened 
into agony by the belief that a physician and proper 
attendance might have preserved her little one. Such 
thoughts are the harder to bear, because the social 
affections of the needy are necessarily cherished by the 
habit of doing those humble services to each other which 
are rendered to the rich by their menials ; and perhaps 



78 

this necessity alone may counteract the inevitable and 
therefore pardonable selfishness arising from scanty 
subsistence. 

Upon the whole, there can be no doubt that 
inequality of condition is so much more seeming than 
real, as to suggest unanswerable dissuasives from envy 
and discontent, as well as from hard-heartedness and 
vainglory. 

If the difficulty can be surmounted of persuading 
the poor to be contented with their portion in this 
world, there will be little or no trouble in overcoming 
the reluctance of the rich to prefer their larger share. 



ON WAR. 

So much has been well said against war, that it has 
the air of a plagiarism when any of its unavoidable evils 
are alluded to. 

Yet there is a short passage, in Dr. Aikin's Life of 
Howard the philanthropist, placing one of them in so 
striking a light, that it must excite the most painful 
reflections in a reader of common humanity. 

In one of his benevolent journeys, he writes from 
Moscow, that "no less than 70,000 recruits for the 
" army and navy have died in the Russian hospitals 
" during a single year." 

He was an accurate man, incapable of saying any 
thing but the truth, and therefore this horrible fact 
cannot but heighten our detestation both of war and of 
despotism. It has, however, been scarcely spoken of 
in Europe; while other hateful crimes, though affecting 
only individuals, have justly become the perpetual objects 
of pity and indignation. For instance, the cruel murders 
of the Princesse de Lamballe and of Louis the Sixteenth. 



80 

The truth is, that despotism is ever destroying its 
millions silently and unnoticed; while sedition is 
generally tumultuous, and always dreaded and detested. 
So many are interested in painting exaggerated pictures 
of its mischiefs, that the world is kept in perpetual 
alarm, and even the writers themselves become unable to 
judge impartially between oppression and resistance ; as 
an artist is said to have drawn the devil so hideous that 
he lost his senses by looking at his own colours. 

There are few riots without some grievance. " Jupiter," 
says Lucian, " seldom has recourse to his thunder, but 
"when he is in the wrong;" and, at the close of a 
long military life, Monsieur de Vendome owned that, 
" in the eternal disputes between the mules and the 
" muleteers, the mules were generally in the right." 

All our praiseworthy toil and expense, in building 
infirmaries and asylums, cannot save a hundredth part of 
the lives, nor alleviate a hundredth part of the afflictions 
brought upon the human race by one unnecessary war. 
" Next to the calamity of losing a battle is that of gaining 
" a victory," is reported to have been said by our great 
commander, on the evening of the bloody day of 
Waterloo. 

It is, therefore, much to be lamented that so many 



81 

persons of influence are benefited by war, as the tolls at 
Cork are raised by the slaughtering season. Alas ! 
"Multis utile bellum!" 

Great conquerors are curses on mankind while they 
live ; and, when they die, they leave no relics like the skins 
of their predecessors, I had almost said their ancestors, 
the wolves and bears. 

How easily are the silly victims deluded! What a 
humiliating picture of human life is exhibited in the hand- 
bills usually stuck up all over London ! ll All aspiring 
" heroes, who wish to serve their king and country, 
" defend the protestant religion, and live for ever, may 
" receive ten shillings and sixpence by applying at the 
" Britannia public-house in Wapping." Such tempta- 
tions, who can withstand ? Fame, future happiness, and 
half-a-guinea ! 

Since statesmen complain so much of what they call 
" Declamation," why will they render it so easy and so 
unanswerable ? 

In one of Foote's Farces, Dr. Last asks boastingly, 
" Have you heard of my black powder ?" As if he had 
been the discoverer of so famous a medicine, though all 
the state-quacks, since the invention of artillery, have 
been as fond and as proud too of the doctor's prescription. 



82 



ON INTOLERANCE AND BIGOTRY. 

The crime of Intolerance is not only hateful, but 
so ridiculous, that many of its absurdities are scarcely 
credible. 

The Chancelier de l'Hopital was called an atheist, 
because he refused to be a persecutor : Galileo for 
thinking the earth turns round: Descartes for saying 
there are innate ideas : Gassendi and Locke for denying 
them. Father Hardouin proved, very much to his 
own satisfaction, that Malebranche, Pascal, Arnaud and 
Nicole, (the most pious of men,) would certainly be 
damned. The mother of Louis XIV. was shocked 
by the notion that Jansenists might be saved, and 
cried out, " Ah ! fi ! fi ! de la Grace." In Hispaniola, 
some Spaniards made a vow to sacrifice every day 
twelve Indians in honour of the twelve Apostles. When 
Savoy and Geneva exchanged a village or two, Geneva 
engaged to tolerate the Catholic inhabitants for twenty- 
Jive years! If the Mahometans conclude a treaty of 
peace with Christians, they forthwith proceed to the 
mosque, and ask pardon of God Almighty for discon- 



83 

tinuing to cut the throats of his children, on whom 
they imprecate calamities. Now it is unfortunately, or 
fortunately true, that curses are seldom quite ineffectual, 
inasmuch as they have a tendency to bring down well- 
merited punishments on the heads of those who pray 
that evils may fall on others. But there would be no 
end of enumerating these weak and wicked creeds and 
practices. 

It has been asked by a great author — " What does it 
" signify, whether you deny a God or speak ill of him V 
A question well answered by another sage, when he 
declares, " I would rather men should say, that there 
" never was such a man as Plutarch, than that 
" Plutarch was an ill-natured, mischievous fellow." 

A most affecting instance of a contrary 4 way of thinking 
is found in the pious poet Cowper's belief that " some- 
" where in infinite space there is a world beyond the 
" province of mercy," and that he himself had been 
selected as an example of the Almighty's sovereign power 
and indisputable right " to do what he pleased with his 
" creatures " in dooming him to everlasting misery, 
though not the very worst of human beings. Perhaps 
there is not another known case of so heart-rending an 
illusion. 

g 2 



84 

Yet Bigotry is just as amiable and as respectable in 
her indulgences as in her severities, in her partialities as 
in her persecutions. She deified most of the Roman empe- 
rors, and she has graced the calendar of saints with the 
names of many disgusting fools and villains. 

The Scythians reasoned well when pursued by the 
would-be son of Jupiter Ammon, that " he who did so 
" much harm to men could not be divine. " Their infer- 
ence, however, has been carried too far by the African 
people, who were of opinion that " God is too good to 
" require that his creatures should pray to him for bless- 
" ings," and therefore they worshipped only the evil 
spirits. 

There can be no reasonable doubt that it is better to 
believe too much than too little, since, as Bos well 
observes, (most probably in Johnson's words), " a man 
" may breathe in foul air, but he must die in an exhausted 
" receiver." 

Much of the scepticism that we meet with is necessarily 
affectation or conceit, for it is as likely that the ignorant, 
weak, and indolent, should become mathematicians as 
reasoning unbelievers. Patient study and perfect impar- 
tiality must precede rational conviction, whether ending 
in faith or in doubt. Need it be asked how many are 



85 

capable of such an examination ? But whether men 
come honestly by their opinions or not, it is more 
advisable to refute than to burn, or even to scorch 
them. 



ON THE PASSIONS. 

I have heard that a gentleman, to whom an estate had 
been bequeathed, called up his servants and addressed 
them thus : — " Ladies and gentlemen ! I hope you will 
," have the goodness to remember that I have got only 
" one more estate of one thousand pounds per annum, 
" and I beg that every one of you will not be spending 
« at that rate." 

Something like this should be said to our different 
appetites, for the consequence of freely indulging all, 
would be ruinous to body, mind, and fortune. Yet each 
must be moderately satisfied, since gratifying one alone 
would be like giving food to a single head of Cerberus, 
making the others only more voracious. 

Such, notwithstanding, is the complicated constitution 
of human nature, that a man, without a predominant 
inclination, is not likely to be either useful or happy. 



86 

" Chrysologue est tout et n'est rien.'* He who is 
every thing is nothing, is as true of our sensitive as of 
our intellectual nature. He is rather a bundle of little 
likings than a compact and energetic individual. A strong 
desire soon subdues all the weaker, and rules us with 
the united force of all that it subjugates. 

Vivid perceptions and intense feelings have, sometimes, 
a sort of fascination, compelling us to rush headlong into 
danger ; as in the delirious giddiness caused by looking 
down a frightful precipice. Action so commonly follows 
lively sensation that the habit becomes inveterate, and, 
now and then, irresistible, even when certainly fatal. 
Any desire, suffered to rule uncontrolled, quickly gains 
this terrible ascendancy, and even madness itself is, 
sometimes, only outrageous selfishness. 

Such being the force of human feelings, it must 
embitter our daily lives if our employments are unsuited 
to our talents and wishes ; yet, how few, alas ! are so 
fortunate as to be gaining either wealth or fame while 
gratifying an inclination. 

The well-known doctrine of a master-passion is only 
an exaggeration of the fact, as displayed in the charac- 
ters of most persons, and especially of those who have 
warm constitutions. 



87 



It is therefore of great importance to watch the growth 
of such a powerful despot in ourselves and in others, if 
we hope to govern or to understand either. Yet it is, in 
truth, surprising how few are sufficiently acquainted with 
themselves to see, distinctly, what their own motives 
actually are. It is a rare as well as a great advantage 
for a man to know his own mind. 

If we attend to what is going on we have, at first, a 
voice in choosing our own sovereign ; for the monarchy, 
though absolute, is elective, and much indeed does it 
concern us to choose our ruler wisely. 

Ambition and vanity are hard taskmasters, and it is 
only to our home-bred affections that we must trust 
for real pleasures. The world tempts and disappoints ; 
first makes us thirsty and then gives us bitter water to 
drink. Even when defeated and mortified, the social 
feelings are not wholly unpleasing, for the French 
actress's exclamation, while speaking of an unfaithful 
lover's once deserting her, was quite natural. " Ah ! 
" c'etoit le bon terns! j'etois bien malheureuse." No 
colours are so gay as those reflected by the clouds that 
have passed away. 

It cannot be denied, that our warmest emotions, 
though subjecting us to innumerable temptations, have 



88 



many countervailing benefits. Though all the passions 
are subtle sophists, and ever justify themselves, yet 
they are not without their use in our mental improvement, 
since, probably more prejudices are removed by passion 
than by philosophy. Temper too, even ill-temper, is 
more frank and honest than a calm, calculating self-love ; 
or, at least, it puts others on their guard, by exhibiting 
the character plainly, as an insect shown in a micro- 
scope. 

Of the generous impulses, it is needless to point out 
the merits. They are, luckily, felt in all conditions of 
life. Admiration, for instance, is found in all, especially 
in unspoiled youth, and in the unambitious common 
people. What a simultaneous burst of applause from 
pit, box, and gallery, instantly follows a magnanimous 
deed or sentiment! " Les grandes pensees viennent du 
" cceur," says a most discerning, self-taught, man of the 
world. 

In the voluptuous and self-indulgent vices, there is 
often some mixture of kindness, some little regard to 
others ; but the vain, too commonly, and the ambitious, 
always, are purely selfish, admitting of no partners in 
success, and hating their dearest friends, should such, 
unfortunately, happen to be their competitors for fame 



89 

and power. She must be an antiquated beauty who can 
hear with perfect pleasure a compliment paid to her 
own daughter's rival charms, and no aspiring public man 
can " bear a brother near the throne." 

All solitary enjoyments quickly pall, or become painful, 
so that, perhaps, no more insufferable misery can be 
conceived than that which must follow incommunicable 
privileges. Only imagine a human being condemned 
to perpetual youth, while all around him decay and 
die ! Oh ! how sincerely he would call upon death for 
deliverance! No means of suicide would be left 
unattempted. 

What, then, is to be done? Are we to struggle 
against all our natural desires ? Luckily we should 
strive in vain ; or, could we succeed, what fools should 
we be for our pains ! 

There is no need to extinguish the fertility of the 
soil, lest the harvest should be unwholesome. Is it not 
better, far, to root up the weeds, and to plant fruits and 
flowers instead ? Were but a tithe of the time and the 
thought, usually spent in learning the commonest accom- 
plishments, bestowed upon regulating our lives, how 
many evils would be avoided or lessened ! how many 
pleasures would be created or increased ! 



90 



ON POLITICAL AGITATIONS. 

A French gentleman said to Monsieur Colbert — 
" You found the state-carriage overturned on one side, 
" and you have overturned it on the other." This was 
probably untrue, but it must be confessed, that there is 
always some danger of destroying institutions by unskilful 
or violent changes. A conflagration may be extinguished 
without a deluge. 

It is not only hard to distinguish between too little 
and too much, but between the good and evil intentions 
of the different reformers. One man calls out " Fire," 
that he may save the house, another, that he may run 
away with the furniture. 

I am inclined to believe, that in revolutions, more 
harm is done by hurry and self-conceit, than by mis- 
chievous purposes. Very few indeed should presume 
to lay their hands on the Ark, but 

" Fools rush in where angels fear to tread ;" 
and unluckily, 

" A down-hill reformation rolls apace." 



91 

When honest men infer from their desire to do good, 
that they have the knowledge and talents requisite to 
govern wisely, it is incalculable what evil-doers they 
may innocently become ! What an eternal shock of pur- 
poses where each man pursues his own crude schemes, 
with all the obstinacy of self-satisfied integrity ! Yet to 
leave serious grievances imperfectly redressed, or indis- 
putable improvements unattained, merely through a 
vague apprehension of innovation, is at once a great 
and a common evil. There is much truth in Bacon's 
complaint? " That some men object too much, consult 
" too long, adventure too little, repent too soon, and 
" seldom drive business home." 

Even moderation itself may sometimes be folly or 
cowardice. On the Exclusion-bill being opposed in the 
House of Commons, Colonel Titus exclaimed both wisely 
and eloquently. " We are advised to be moderate : but 
" I do not take moderation to be a prudential virtue in 
" all cases. If I were flying from thieves, should I ride 
" moderately, lest I break my horse's wind? If I were 
" defending my own life or the lives of my wife and 
" children, should I strike moderately, lest I put myself 
" out of breath ? And if, Mr. Speaker, we were in a 
" sinking ship, (no unapt representation of our decaying 



92 

" commonwealth), ought we to pump moderately, lest 
" we bring on a fever?" 

Gradual improvements, notwithstanding, are not only 
safer but better than sudden ones, and more, much 
more, may be learnt from their example, when well 
recorded: but history is addicted to dwell on the latter, 
and rarely investigates the former. Their effects also 
are more permanent and more extensive ; anarchy being 
only the stakeholder for tyranny. There is, besides, 
something more terrible to the imagination in the 
disorderly violences of the multitude, than in the 
organised oppression of a Despot ; something more 
hideous in myriads of reptiles, than in a gigantic beast 
of prey. If there were no alternative but either the 
absolute government of St. Giles's or of St. James's, 
who in his senses could hesitate a moment which to 
prefer ? 

Besides its other innumerable benefits, a really re- 
presentative government has the advantage of exempting 
individual persons from the necessity of becoming 
political agitators; and, by increasing the competition 
while it diminishes the rewards, it lessens the num- 
bers of those who can be advanced in reputation or 
in fortune by office. The young people of this country, 



93 

in every rank, from a peer's son to a street-sweeper's, 
are drawn aside from a praiseworthy exertion in honest 
callings, by having their eyes directed to the public 
treasure. The rewards of persevering industry are too 
slow for them, too small, and too insipid. They fondly 
trust to the great lottery, although the wheel contains so 
many blanks and so few prizes ; hoping that their ticket 
may be drawn a place, a pension, or a contract, a living, 
or a stall, a ship, or a regiment, a seat on the bench, 
or the great-seal. 

It is, indeed, most humiliating to witness the indecent 
scramble that is always going on for these prizes, the 
highest born and best educated rolling in the dirt, to 
pick them up, just as the lowest of the mob do for the 
shillings or the pence thrown among them by a successful 
candidate at a contested election. 



94 



ON VISITING-ACQUAINTANCE. 

A lady complaining that her shoes were burst 
on the first day of wearing them, the shoemaker 
exclaimed, " What wonder? why your ladyship 
actually walked in them."" 

It is not unusual to hear lamentations, as unreason- 
able as the lady's, from simple people, who have 
been disappointed in expecting aid or sympathy from 
those whom the courtesy of the world calls " friends." 
None but the inexperienced look for real services from 
merely fashionable connections. They are like roughly 
painted pictures, to be kept at a distance. It is 
understood, that people are to be charmed with each 
other, just so long as it is amusing to meet, but not 
an hour longer. Adversity not only lowers people's 
spirits and renders friends dull, but too often it has 
the unpardonable effect of taking away the means of 
receiving others in return. 

The friendships of the world lie chiefly in frequent 
visits and in joint subscriptions to a club, or to an 
opera-box, but as for the mutual self-sacrifices, so 



95 

delicious to heartfelt affection, it is perfectly ridiculous 
to rely upon such things from such persons or to cry 
out when they are refused. " Nam illae ambitiosae 
" fucosaeque amicitiae sunt in quodam splendore forensi, 
" fructum domesticum non habent." Who does not 
know how much, or how little is meant, when a corre- 
spondent signs himself " your humble servant, 1,1 and 
assures you that "he is ever most faithfully yours?" 

The fate of those whose talents raise them suddenly 
to reputation, is particularly hard. The blaze of a 
successful first appearance, on the stage, or in parlia- 
ment, attracts the eyes of all the world. The very 
domestic ladies, who delight in being " at home," 
immediately throw open their doors to the petted, and, 
too often, the spoiled child of the season. The vogue 
lasts throughout the spring, and then " farewell," 
perhaps, " for ever " to the shower of flattering notes 
and pressing invitations. This is bad enough in the 
world, but the deserted dupes are often most to be 
blamed, who mistake notoriety for fame, and curiosity 
for affection. 

Indeed, there are many respectable persons well worth 
knowing, because their manners towards us mark 
precisely the actual degree of our fashion at any given 



96 

moment, and is not this being of use ? Have we not 
in them those magical mirrors which show us what is 
passing in other places ? 

There is, to speak seriously, another complaint, 
truly unreasonable. How frequently do we hear severe, * 
yet unmerited reflections on those, who, in consequence 
of a change of residence, or of pursuits, naturally drop 
the acquaintance of old associates ! Perhaps business 
may rob them of their leisure ; perhaps they may have 
lost their health or their incomes; perhaps they have 
given up drawing, and have taken to music ; or they 
have entered into another political party. With the 
similarity of habits and opinions, it is plain, that the 
desire to meet must also be lost. Even a long absence 
may have greatly altered the nature of the connection 
between two persons sincerely attached. They have 
untold secrets, new alliances, new fancies, new senti- 
ments. They have to point out to each other every 
thing about them, as they show the town to a stranger. 
Yet a true friend it is shameful to forget; but mere 
acquaintances may be as innocently changed as our 
studies, occupations, or amusements. 

To do mankind justice, it must be owned, that such 
mortified feelings, as have been alluded to, are seldom 



expressed when they who give us up, have declined 
in their circumstances, or in their fashion. It is those 
who rise that are regretted and abused. 



ON A VOICE. 

Intended for a Periodical Paper projected in 1800 — 
ey Sir James Mackintosh. 

There are few natural gifts which may not be turned 
to profitable use. A well-known person has always 
gained his living solely by his voice. He once owned 
that his mother told him (though he generally was too 
busy in talking himself to listen to others) that he had 
begun, while in arms, to tyrannise over the whole family 
by his cries and screams. A maiden aunt always com- 
plained that nobody else could be heard in the house, 
while he was awake; nay, his noisy mode of sleeping 
often deprived his little brothers and sisters of their 
natural rest. 

His parents being poor, he was set to frighten away 
the rooks from the newly-sown corn lands; and he then 
got the two offices of common-crier and counter-tenor in 
the cathedral, serving at the same time both Church and 
State. The former he deserted for a short time, having 

H 



turned field-preacher; but he soon became worldly again, 
earning his dinners and evening enjoyments by singing 
at taverns and ale-houses : yet he always declared, that 
he got more by his piano manner than by his forte. 
Whispering at morning-calls and at tea-tables did more 
for him, along time, than voting or shouting at elections ; 
though, in the end, he was greatly advanced by his 
success in the latter. His great merits, both in 
canvassing, and in loud speaking on the hustings, 
procured for him, unexpectedly, a seat in parliament ; 
where his incessant cheers (friendly or hostile), his 
readiness to speak against time, and his well-timed calls 
to order, but above all, his audible pronunciation of the 
two monosyllables " aye," and " no," quickly made his 
fortune. He was knighted on being chosen to deliver a 
corporation address to his Majesty, when passing through 
the borough. 

Now he lives in honourable retirement, swearing 
impartially at friends and foes. In short, he would 
have been perfectly happy, if he had not been haunted 
by a pei'petual alarm, lest an asthma, or some disease of 
the trachea should reduce him to poverty and insig- 
nificance. 

" Tot rerum vox una fuit." 



99 



THE NATURE AND UTILITY OF ELOQUENCE. 



Read in the Manchester Society, November 2, 1787, and 
printed in their memoirs. 



" Fructu, et populari estimatione, Sapientia Eloquentiae cedit. Ita enim Salomon, 
" sapiens corde appellabitur prudens, sed dulcis eloquio majora reperiet ; haud 
" obscure innuens, Sapientiam famam quandam, et admirationem cuipiam 
" conciliare, at in rebus gerendis et vita communi, eloquentiam prsecipue esse 
" efficacem." 

Bacon, De Augm. Scien., Lib. VI. Cap. 3. 



I must hope to be forgiven, for owning that I con- 
sider myself as running some risk in venturing to 
solicit the attention of the Society, when I have nothing 
to offer but a few thoughts concerning such a kind of 
subject as Eloquence. Generally prevalent as the study 
of Natural Philosophy is, at present, in this kingdom, 
and particularly cultivated as this science has been by so 
many of the most eminent members of the Society, 
I should be somewhat surprised if the philosophy of 

h2 



100 



the fine arts were held in much estimation. I never 
could, and I hope I never shall, allow myself to speak 
or think disrespectfully of other men's pursuits, merely 
because they differ from mine; but surely I may be 
permitted to say, that the study of that grand and 
seducing science, Natural Philosophy, has a tendency 
to excite in its followers low ideas of arts as useful 
as any that can be founded even upon its noblest 
discoveries. It is true, that in distinguishing the arts 
from each other, the fine arts have been usually 
opposed to the useful ; but is not this improper ? 
and would it not be better to consider them as 
divided into the liberal and the mechanical ? Had 
I thought eloquence to be a fine art only, in the 
common sense of that term, I should, in the first 
instance, have probably saved myself the trouble of 
thinking or writing about it at all ; but, in the second, 
I should certainly have spared the Society the trouble 
of reading what I had written. Eloquence, so far as 
it is an art, is undoubtedly classed with propriety 
among the fine arts; since the means it uses to effect 
its purposes are not mechanical, and inasmuch as 
it is so constantly connected with the strongest 
exercises of the imagination ; but surely it can never 



101 

be excluded from an eminent place among the useful 
arts, so long as men have prejudices to be attacked, 
fears to be allayed, hopes to be excited, or passions 
to be moved; and so long, it may be added, as they 
have understandings to be informed. For, perhaps, 
the most extensive field for the display of real ability 
in speaking is the rich, the vast, and hitherto imper- 
fectly-cultivated tract of probable evidence. 

Within the sphere of demonstration, indeed, eloquence 
has but little to do, having only room enough to exhibit 
two of her lowest qualities, perspicuity and order: but 
demonstration, though absolute so far as her power 
extends, reigns over a very narrow territory. I will 
not presume to go quite so far as D'Alembert, and say 
of eloquence, " Les prodiges qu'elle opere, souvent, entre 
" les mains d'un seul, sur toute une nation, sont peutetre 
" le temoignage le plus eclatant de la superiorite d'un 
" homme sur un autre* ;" but still, that art which 
teaches us how we are likely, in the most effectual 
manner, to make ourselves masters of other men's minds 
by speech, must be permitted to rank very highly in 
the scale of useful studies. 

* Discours preliminaire a 1' Encyclopedic. 



- 102 

It has, in truth, been common with those men of 
sense who have themselves been deficient in expression, 
to speak with contempt of the eloquence of others, and 
to represent it as useless at least, if not highly 
dangerous ; nay, some men have very dexterously and 
successfully used the art itself to decry its importance, 
and vilify its tendency.* " Quod sit indignissimum," 
says Quintilian ; "in accusationem orationis, utuntur 
" orandi viribusf." 

w It is evident," says Mr. Locke, " how men love 
" to deceive, and be deceived ; since rhetoric, that 
" powerful instrument of error and deceit, has its 
*'. established professors, is publicly taught, and has 
" always been had in great reputation]:." " What is 
" the end of eloquence, 1 "' says Warburton in the chapter 
already referred to, " but to stifle reason, and inflame 
" passions V The prejudices of Mr. Locke were 
undoubtedly honest, but they plainly show that he 
mistook the abuse of the art for the art itself; and 

* The instances of this self-condemning censure are very numer- 
ous ; but there are few examples of it so remarkable, or so enter- 
taining, as a long passage in Plato's Gorgias, and another in the 
ninth chapter of Warburton's Doctrine of Grace. 

f Lib. II. cap. 15. 

J Essay on Human Understanding, Book III. ch. 10. 



103 

happily for mankind, Bacon's observation is true* : 
" No man can well speak fair of things sordid and base, 
" but in things honest it is an easy matter to be 
" eloquent." To the bishop's authority it may be 
objected, as Thucydides says it was to Cleon's, " that 
" because he used to hold the bad side in the causes he 
" pleaded, therefore he was ever inveighing against 
" eloquence and good speechf . v It were easy to 
multiply the examples of such misrepresentations ; the 
sophists and the fathers of old, the metaphysicians and 
theologians of late, have united in abusing an art 
which they wanted judgment as well as taste to under- 
stand. Yet in all the various instances of these incon- 
siderate attacks, it ever appeared to me, that the 
objections and censures constantly arose from a miscon- 
ception of the real nature of the art. 

" Tis poor eloquence," says Sir J. Reynolds, " that 
" only shows a man can talk." 

How often is the epithet " eloquent" applied to some 
ignorant coxcomb, who in every gesture, look, and word, 

* De rebus sordidis et indignis, non posse quempiam pulchre 
loqui, at de rebus honestis facillime. — De Augm. Scient., Lib. V , 
cap. 3. 

f Thucyd., Lib. III. 



104 

offends against the first rudiments of speaking, for- 
getting " ars est celare artem !" How many times must 
every man have heard the title of " orator" given to some 
wretched phrase-monger, whose skill consisted only in 
the frequent use of a gaudy word, or an affected 
antithesis ! Thus has this efficacious and important 
art become disreputable ; and, of course, disregarded 
by many great and wise men, even among those whose 
professions are connected with the daily practice of 
public speaking. But this misconception is far from 
being peculiar to those who have not attended to the 
subject ; for perhaps it is hardly possible to produce 
any definitions of rhetoric from the ancient, and there 
are but few to be found in modern writings, which do 
not either lay it open to just objections, or degrade 
its importance by confining its powers and its appli- 
cation. 

It cannot but have been matter of some surprise to 
such as are conversant with the works of the most 
celebrated rhetoricians, that they should differ so 
generally and so widely respecting the nature of the 
art which they profess to teach. In the fifteenth chapter 
of his second book, Quintilian states and refutes a great 
variety of different definitions, which, even in his time, 



105 

had been given of rhetoric; and he censures, among 
others, those that rested on the authority of names no 
less eminent than Isocrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero. 
He then proceeds to express and support his own 
opinion ; but less skilfully and less successfully than he 
had attacked the sentiments of his predecessors. The 
same irreconcileable variety of opinion prevails among 
later writers on this subject ; which, to say the truth, 
has been considered by so many able authors, and by 
some of such exalted reputation, that I choose to 
mention this difference among them, as an apology for 
presuming to go over the ground which such men have 
trodden. Since all cannot be right where all disagree, 
the authority of one serves to counterbalance that of 
another ; and thus a man may be allowed to differ from 
any of them, without dreading the imputation of 
vanity. " II faut, dans tous les arts, se donner bien de 
" garde de ces definitions trompeuses, par lesquelles 
" nous osons exclure toutes les beautes, qui nous sont 
" inconnues, ou que la coutume n'a point encore rendues 
" familieres." — Volt., sur le Poeme Epique. 

Aristotle says, it is the office of rhetoric : t( O'v to 

IIEISAI ctXXa to ISeiv to. v7rap)(0VTa TTIGANA wept ekcmttov. 

— Rhet., Lib. I. c. 1. 



106 

" Officium autem ejus facultatis videtur esse, dicere 
" apposite ad persuadendum." — Cicero de Inven., Lib. I„ 
s. 5. 

" Nihil enim est eloquentia, nisi copiose loquens 
" sapientia." — Cicero Orat. Part. s. 23. 

" Scientia bene dicendi." — Quin., Lib. II. cap. 15. 

"Est igitur frequentissimus finis rhetorices vis 
" persuadendi. Hsec opinio originem duxit ab Isocrate: 
" apud Platonem quoque idem fere dicit." — Quin., Lib. II. 
cap. 15. 

" L'eloquence est le talent d'imprimer avec force, et 
" de faire passer avec rapidite, dans l'ame des autres le 
" sentiment profond dont on est penetre." — D'Alembert, 
sur l'Elocution Oratoire. 

" Eloquence is the power of speaking with fluency and 
" elegance." — Dr. Johnson's Dictionary. 

" Eloquence is the art of speaking or writing well, so 
" as to move and persuade." — Chambers's Cyclopaedia. 

This is but a small sample of the various modes of 
speaking concerning the subject ; but no more need be 
produced, and to me all these appear either false or 
imperfect. Perhaps the most sensible, most substantial, 
and most useful idea of eloquence, is that expressed by 
Dr. Campbell in the first sentence of his Philosophy of 



107 

Rhetoric : { ' Eloquence is that art or talent by which 
" a discourse is adapted to its end." The same senti- 
ment is intimated by Quintilian, when he says, "Quo 
" quisque plus efficit dicendo, hoc magis secundum 
" naturam eloquentiae dicit # ." Fenelon, the best of all 
critics, in his Dialogues of the Dead, represents Demos- 
thenes as saying to Cicero, " Tu faisais dire : Qu'il parle 
" bien ! et moi je faisais dire : Allons ! marchons contre 
" Philippe." " Whatever composition," says Mr. Wilkes, 
in one of his speeches, " produces the effect which is 
" intended, in the most forcible manner, is, in my 
" opinion, the best, and most to be approved. That 
" mode should always be pursued : it has the most merit, 
" as well as the most success, on the great theatre of the 
" world, no less than on the stage, whether you mean to 
" inspire pity, terror, or any other passion.'' It may, 
perhaps, be objected, that the word eloquence has 
generally been used in a more limited sense ; and, to say 
the truth, it has by many been applied to denote orna- 
mental composition only : but has not this arisen from 
a mistake, by which a part of the art has been taken for 
the whole ? This has been the case with poetry, and it 

* Lib. XII. cap. 10. 



108 

is amusing to observe the difficulties into which the error 
has brought many learned men, in their attempts to settle 
the nature and essential qualities of this noble art. Some 
have thought its nature to consist in imagery, some in 
imitation, some in fiction, some in metre, and others in 
passion ; whereas these are only so many different means 
employed by the poet to effect his purposes, and are 
all mere parts of that of which it has been supposed 
they constitute the essence. However, let the common 
meaning of the term be what it may, we are not now 
considering the proper acceptation of a word, but the 
real nature of a serious art. The existence of such an 
art can hardly be doubted, for that would be to question 
whether men speak best by accident or by design, when 
they take no thought, or when they previously consider 
what they are about to do. Nature, it must be confessed, 
does much, and will not only lead but compel us, on 
interesting occasions, to use those forms of speech (even 
the most complex) which rhetoricians have arranged and 
named. Perhaps no language is more natural than that 
which abounds with figure and allusion. Yet still ability 
alone is not sufficient ; and a living man, of high rank 
in politics, might be pointed out, who, though gifted far 
beyond any of his contemporaries, and greatly superior 



109 

to them in acquirements, has yet been often found a 
useless and sometimes a dangerous auxiliary, because he 
wanted the skill to manage his prodigious powers. He 
is ever saying something only for the sake of saying it ; 
merely because it is singular, beautiful, or sublime, and 
without any regard to its effect on his auditors. A real 
thought he never can dismiss, till he has made it the 
subject of innumerable comparisons, or darkened it by 
superabundant illustration. If it be possible for such a 
waste of talents to be occasioned by a deficiency in the 
art we are speaking of, it may not be amiss to consider 
whether the definition of it given by Dr. Campbell be 
the true one, and, at the same time, to examine the 
opinions of the other celebrated writers, whose definitions 
I have quoted, as they are maintained and defended by 
two authors of great reputation, and of peculiar abilities 
for the discussion of such a subject, Dr. Browne and 
Dr. Leland, both of whom have stated their sentiments 
at length ; the former in his Essay on Ridicule, and 
the latter in his Dissertation on the Principles of 
Human Eloquence. 

Dr. Browne speaks thus : " As eloquence is of a 
" vague, unsteady nature, merely relative to the imagi- 
" nations and passions of mankind ; so there must be 



110 

" several orders and degrees of it, subordinate to each 
" other in dignity, yet each perfect in its kind. The 
" common end of each is persuasion : the means are 
" different, according to the various capacities, fancies, 
" and affections of those whom the artist attempts to 
" persuade. The pathetic orator, who throws a con- 
" gregation of enthusiasts into tears and groans, would 
" raise affections of a very different nature, should he 
" attempt to proselyte an English parliament. As, on 
" the other hand, the finest speaker that ever com- 
" manded the house would in vain point the thunder 
" of his eloquence on a Quaker meeting.'' — Essay on 
Ridicule, sect. 3, p. 32. 

Of this passage, Dr. Leland says, " This is plausibly 
" and ingeniously urged ; but the whole argument is 
"founded on the supposition that eloquence and 
" persuasion are one and the same, and that to be 
" denominated an orator, no more is necessary than to 
" influence and move the hearer : a supposition which 
" cannot be admitted, however witty men may have 
" talked of the ( eloquence of silence,' or the ' eloquence 
" of nonsense.' ' Persuade nt enim dicendo,' saith Quin- 
" tilian ; ' vel ducunt in id quod volunt, alii quoque 
" ( meretrices, adulatores, corruptores.' (Lib. II. cap. 16.) 



Ill 

" The alluring accents of an harlot move the sensualist ; 
" the abject and extravagant praises of a flatterer 
" move the vain man ; and the plain promise of a 
" large reward, expressed without trope or figure, may 
" have the greatest power over the conduct of a traitor 
"or an assassin. But it will by no means follow that 
" the harlot, the flatterer, or the suborner is eloquent. 
" To merit this praise, a man must persuade (if he does 
" persuade) by the real excellences, the engaging and 
" conciliating qualities of speech. Accordingly, Aristotle 
" tells us it is the office of rhetoric, ' videre quaecunque 
" apposita sint ad persuadendum in quaque re.' So that 
" the Doctor's orator, who throws a congregation of 
" enthusiasts into tears and groans, is, in reality, no 
" orator at all, because he owes his influence, not to 
" clearness and strength of reasoning, not to dignity of 
" sentiment, force or elegance of expression, and the 
" like, but to senseless exclamation, unmeaning rhapsody ; 
" or to grimace, to a sigh, to a rueful countenance ; and 
" if he would in vain endeavour to proselyte an English 
" parliament, it is for this very reason, because he is no 
" orator, nor can any man without any one of the 
(( apposita, the rational excellences and engaging 
" qualities of speech, be said to possess a degree of 



112 

" eloquence perfect in its kind.'' — Leland's Dissertation, 
ch. 14. 

What Leland says of Browne's may be as justly said 
of his own argument, that it is plausibly and ingeniously 
urged ; but probably the opinion of neither is true. 
Although it may be acknowledged that " eloquence is 
" relative to the imaginations and passions of men," yet 
it does not therefore follow that it is of a " vague, 
" unsteady nature."" It might as justly be said, that the 
art of music is of a vague, unsteady nature, because it 
produces compositions so infinitely various ; or that 
the art of the painter is liable to the same reflection, 
because it is sometimes exercised on copper and some- 
times on canvas. The arts themselves are fixed, steady, 
and immutable ; it is only the objects on which they 
operate that are various and perishable. Neither is it 
true that the only end of all eloquence is persuasion. 
An orator undoubtedly often aims to persuade, but he 
generally has some other end in view. He frequently 
wishes to alarm, to rouse, to depress, to excite our pity, 
or to fire our indignation, and sometimes is only desirous 
to delight the imagination. Now these different objects 
can never be reduced under the general head of persua- 
sion, without departing most unwarrantably from the 



113 

common acceptation of that term. The ingenious 
instances adduced in the last sentence of the quotation 
from Browne, are certainly not sufficient to prove either 
of his positions : namely, that eloquence is of a vague, 
unsteady nature, or that the common end of all eloquent 
discourses is persuasion. The answer just given to the 
principles themselves, will also destroy the application of 
these instances. And, in truth, the facts which he takes 
notice of may be accounted for in a much more reason- 
able and unobjectionable manner. 

That the Methodist preacher would produce no other 
effect in parliament but that of making himself ridicu- 
lous, is unquestionable ; and why ? Because, in attempt- 
ing" to affect the house, by the use of the same means as 
those that are successful in his own pulpit, he would 
cease to be eloquent. He would be violating one of the 
fundamental rules of rhetoric, which teaches us, that a 
speaker ought to have a constant regard to the quality of 
his audience. His ill success, therefore, would be owing 
to his want of art. He would fail, because he was in- 
eloquent. The eloquence which he had displayed on his 
own ground would still remain unimpeachable. 

The same reasoning is just as applicable to the parlia- 
mentary speaker, who should point the thunder of his 



114 

eloquence on a Quaker-meeting. The thundering sort ol 

eloquence would here be misapplied; and how many 

soever he might use of those conciliating qualities of 

speech which Leland speaks of, he would still be 

unsuccessful, because his speech would not be ad 

homines. Dr. Leland's remarks are truly sensible, and 

would not be liable to objection, if altered but a little. 

The addition to be recommended is a short explanation of 

what he means by those rational and real excellences, 

those conciliating qualities of speech, which he repeats 

as the basis of his reasoning. Had he been called upon 

for such an explanation, he would, I am persuaded, have 

expressed himself so as to deviate materially from the, 

truth of the case. He would probably have said, that 

nature had at first suggested certain forms of speech, 

which rhetoricians had arranged and settled, and that 

these he meant to describe by the terms rational and real 

excellences, engaging and conciliating qualities. This 

others have said ; and to such let it be answered, that 

perhaps the most common faults of all bad writing arise 

from this supposition, of something intrinsically excellent 

and eloquent in certain forms of speech, even when 

considered without any view to the effects which they are 

fitted to produce. Most writers, it must be confessed, 



115 

employ tropes and figures because they are tropes and 
figures, and not because they are calculated to produce 
certain effects on the minds of their readers or hearers. 
The term conciliating is itself relative, and supposes some- 
body to be conciliated ; and these conciliating qualities 
of speech must vary as much as the tempers and under- 
standings of those who are to be conciliated. That 
which is a conciliatory quality in a Methodist congre- 
gation is not so in parliament, and that which is so in 
parliament is not so in a Quaker-meeting. 

The grimaces and rueful exclamations, which Leland 
supposes are so effectual in a conventicle, are certainly 
more useful there than even his conciliating qualities 
and rational excellences of speech ; but it is also true, 
that exclamations more pathetic, and gestures more 
natural, would be still more effectual, even in an 
assembly of enthusiasts ; and the tears and groans pro- 
duced by these grimaces only show the great advantage 
of appropriating and adapting both style and gesture, 
since he himself allows that these awkward attempts 
at adaptation have more effect than the most polite 
and splendid oration, if composed and delivered without 
any regard to the peculiarities of the audience. Yet 
although the variety of temper, intelligence, customs, 

i2 



116 

opinions, and prejudices, among mankind, is very great, 
there are at bottom certain leading principles, certain 
master-passions and prevailing prejudices, that all men 
have in common, which form the character of the 
species, and greatly overbalance all accidental and 
acquired differences. Variety of character is undoubt- 
edly one of the characteristics of man, but similarity is 
a more important one. We all both resemble and 
differ from each other in countenance and form, as 
well as in the turn and quality of our minds. Just so 
it is in the art of eloquence; the kinds are as various 
as the kinds of men, and yet all arise from a few 
fixed and invariable principles ; and no other forms of 
speech can deserve the names which Leland has given 
them, but such as are addressed to those qualities in 
human nature which every perfect individual of the 
species is found to possess. Such qualities there 
undoubtedly are ; and so far as we are all alike, so 
far are the rules of eloquence invariable, so far must 
a speaker's addresses to our understandings and tempers 
be in all cases the same. In what situation, or at 
what season, would it be wrong that the style should 
be proportioned to the subject, should be perspicuous 
in explanation, accurate in reasoning, decorated in 



117 

giving delight, or animated in exciting passion ? That 
the opening of a speech should not betray insolence nor 
conceit ; that the narration should be intelligible ; that 
the arguments should be cogent; that the arrangement 
should be advantageous ; that the expression should be 
suitable; that the pronunciation should be varied and 
distinct; these are not the precepts of one age or one 
country: they are as necessary to be observed at this 
time, as they were when Aristotle or Quintilian first 
inculcated them. 

Instead, therefore, of concluding with Dr. Browne, 
that eloquence is of a vague, unsteady nature, or with 
Leland, that the enthusiast would fail because he is no 
orator, let these inferences be drawn — that eloquence is 
fixed on steady and unchangeable principles ; that it is 
exceedingly extensive in its use, and relates to every 
kind of discourse or speech that can be imagined; that 
he who follows its precepts in one instance, is in that 
instance truly eloquent, however he may fail of success 
when attempting another kind of speaking, whether it be 
of a higher or lower degree; and, in short, let Dr. 
Campbell's definition be thought the true one, when he 
says, that " Eloquence is the art by which a discourse is 
" adapted to its end." This definition solves all diffi- 



118 

culties, explains, and, as it were, embodies all rules, and 
is the grand axiom by which the propriety of every 
subordinate rhetorical precept must finally be tried. If 
such conclusions can be satisfactorily drawn from the 
foregoing thoughts, the examination of the subject has 
not been useless. For it is plainly of material conse- 
quence to be right in the first principles of a practical 
question, since real conduct in life and business cannot 
but be greatly affected by their truth or falsehood. He 
who thinks eloquence to be the art of deceiving, with 
Mr. Locke, will, if he be a good man, never study to be 
eloquent. He who thinks it is speaking ornamentally, 
will be speaking ornamentally when speaking plainly 
would be more efficacious. He will, most pro- 
bably, be lavish of his tropes and figures, when 
these ambitious decorations should be shunned, or 
employed with the most sparing caution. He who 
thinks it consists in moving the passions, will often be 
weeping unaccompanied by the tears of his audience : 
and he who thinks it is the art of persuading, will not 
unfrequently be urgent when he ought to be instruc- 
tive, or using vehement entreaties instead of powerful 
proofs. He, and he only, will not be cramped in the 
exercise of his art by the narrowness of his principles, 



119 

who thinks it is the art of speaking and writing in 
such a manner as is most likely to obtain the ends 
which he proposes to himself in speaking or writing. 
Does he address the multitude ? He will aim at being- 
perspicuous, intelligible, and impassioned. Does he 
speak before men of learning, and such as are eloquent 
themselves? He will endeavour to be rational and 
concise. Does he desire to convince ? He will reason. 
Does he wish to give delight? He will be copious, 
flowing, rich in imagery, and elegant in expression : 
nothing will be harsh, nothing careless, nothing un- 
polished or repulsive. Does , he mean to agitate or 
persuade ? He will be warm, animated, and glowing. 
He will arm himself with the thunders and lightnings 
of eloquence ; or will speak in the mildest tone of 
insinuation, with " bated breath and whispering humble- 
ness." In short, he will at all times accommodate 
himself to his situation; he will be 

" Orpheus in silvis, inter delphinas Arion." 

Like Sylla, he will convert the trees of the academy into 
martial engines. 

Yet this is not all his praise, for it is not only on 
public and solemn occasions that he will find oppor- 



120 

tunities to use his manifold skill* — his eloquence is 
not only fitted for the bar, the pulpit, or the public 
assemblies of the state, but for the numberless interest- 
ing occurrences of private life, and may even descend to 
the narration of events, the composition of a letter, or the 
dexterous management of common conversation. To 
men who have lived in the world, and seen real affairs, 
the utility of such a varied, accommodating, and ready 
skill, cannot but be obviously apparent. It is thus 
spoken of by Lord Bacon, and is set down by him among 
the desiderata ; — 

" Surely it will not be amiss to recommend this 
" whereof we now speak to a new inquiry, to call it by 
" name, The Wisdom of Private Speech, and to refer it 
i( to deficients ; a thing certainly which the more seriously 
" a man shall think of, the more highly he shall valuef ." 
But setting aside the evident advantages arising from 
a superior ability in delivering one's sentiments on great 

* Is orator erit, mea sententia, hoc tam grave dignus nomine, qui 
qiuscumque res incident, prudenter, et composite, ornate, et memoriter 
dicat Cic. de Or., Lib. I. sect. 15. 

f Certe, non abs re fuerit, circa hoc ipsum, de quo nunc dicimus, 
novam instituere inquisitionem, eamque nomine Prudentiae sermonis 
privati indigitare, atque inter desiderata reponere : rem certe, quam 
quo attentius quis recogitet, eo pluris faciet.— De Augm. Scient., 
Lib, VI. cap. 3. 



121 

occasions, and even omitting to lay any stress on the 
obvious utility of the same skill when exerted in a man's 
private affairs ; the pleasures that arise from fine writing 
are so great, so various, so often to be communicated, 
and so easy to be obtained, that this consideration alone 
would defend the art from the imputation of insigni- 
ficance. For I can never be brought to believe that 
they are unprofitably employed, who are constantly in- 
creasing the daily pleasures of their fellow creatures ; 
who can contrive, without corrupting men's minds, to 
divert and entertain them. Shall those be called un- 
profitable labours, which deliver a private man from the 
influence of his domestic anxieties ; an artizan from the 
effects of his labour ; a soldier from his sufferings ; a 
statesman from his cares : which enable one man to 
forget his poverty, another his disease, a third his 
captivity, and all their misfortunes? 

Who are these severe judges that are ever insisting 
upon the exclusive excellence of the mechanical, com- 
mercial, or even philosophical employments ; as if those 
employments were good for any thing, considered 
separately from the end which they aim at in common 
with works of imagination, the Promotion of Happi- 
ness ? Are there any of them that tend more imme- 



122 

diately to this great purpose? Which of them has 
more power to refine the manners, to soften the temper, 
to diffuse tranquillity and cheerfulness, to correct and 
enlarge the mind? Away, then, with such short-sighted 
objections, and let those that choose it prefer the man 
who makes a blade of grass grow where it grew not 
before, to the poet and the moralist who water the 
sickly seeds of virtue, and cause a rich harvest of good 
deeds to spring up from the unfriendly soil of a depraved 
or neglected heart. 



123 



TO MR. HORNE TOOKE. 

2Ut October, 1792. 

I have again gone through the " EIIEA IITEPOENTA" 
carefully, without once using an Englishman's most 
valuable privilege, the right of skipping; but I have 
read it a second time with much delight and more 
advantage. 

I at first supposed it to be a mere grammar, and 
did not suspect its being (what it truly is) a treatise on 
logic and metaphysics; yet I was already aware that 
languages are, really, analytic methods, and that, in 
learning the accidence, we are learning to combine, 
abstract, and generalise. Without mentioning algebra 
or fluxions, the well-known fact that the blind can 
reason well respecting forms and colours, is a proof 
that words and characters are the chief, though not 
the only instruments of ratiocination. In the simpler 
cases of common life, I acknowledge the same to be 
true. Give any thing a name, and it is attended to, 



124 

as when any peculiar tint has been christened, we 
learn to distinguish it, but not before. 

It is scarcely possible to overrate either the hin- 
drances arising from a clumsy and a confused notation, 
or the aid derived from one that is skilful and clear. 
La Place says, that the invention of logarithms has, in 
effect, lengthened the lives of astronomers ; and 
Newton, long ago, observed that, " by an algebraical 
" process, Mr. Machin has approximated the quadrature 
" of the circle much more nearly than was practicable 
" by the methods of the ancients ; since the utmost 
" length of man's life would have been too short for 
« the task." 

Even in the shifting hues that play over the creations 
of wit and humour, the phraseology is a help to inven- 
tion. Thus many have remarked, that it is easier to be 
witty in French than in German*. 

Your etymological discoveries have dispelled many a 
thick cloud hanging over intellectual objects, and hiding 
them even from the piercing eyes of Mr. Locke. I well 



* A most ingenious writer goes so far as to say of the 
French, " C'est une langue qui va d'elle merne, exprime sans qu'on 
" s'en mele, et parait presque toujours avoir plus d'esprit que celui 
" qui parle."-1834. 



125 

remember my own perplexity and discouragement when 
I first read the following wordy and confused passages 
in his "Essay." 

" Besides words, which are names of Ideas, there are 
" a great many others that are made use of to signify 
" the connexion that the mind gives to Ideas, or Propo- 
" sitions, one with another. The mind in commu- 
" nicating its thoughts to others, does not only need 
" signs of the Ideas it has then before it, but others 
" also, to show or intimate some particular action of its 
" own, at that time, relating to those Ideas * * * *. He 
" who would show the right use of Particles, and what 
" force and significancy they have, must take a little 
" pains, enter into his own thoughts, and observe nicely 
" the several Postures of his mind in discoursing ****.- 
" They are all marks of some action or intimation of the 
" mind : and therefore, to understand them rightly, the 
" several views, postures, stands, turns, limitations, and 
" exceptions, and several other thoughts of the mind, for 
" which we have either none, or very deficient names, 
" are diligently to be studied." 

A greater philosopher still has said, " Verba vestigia 
" mentis." What, then, must be his deserts who 



126 

enables us to understand, and to employ them, by giving, 
as it were, their whole biography ? 

There are, however, difficulties in abstruse inquiries 
far beyond the reach of lexicons. The words too, 
themselves, often come down to us from antiquity in a 
waving line, departing from the original signification, 
so far as to be opposed to it. Your admired Des 
B rosses has a chapter full of such examples, but I 
shall remind you only of one. 

" L'emploi que nous faisons de notre mot quitte a tire 
" son origine d'un Latinisme assez connu. J'en suis 
" quitte, c'est-a-dire, on ne m'en parlera plus ; je suis en 
" repos la-dessus : Quietus sum ab ilia re. Sur cette 
" locution nous avons fait le verbe quitter, pour aban- 
" donner. De sorte que le mot quitter se trouve, des 
" la seconde generation, avoir quelquefois un sens tout 
(( contraire au primitif. Car lorsqu'on dit : Je suis dans 
" une grande inquietude depuis le moment ou vous mavez 
" quitte, n'est-ce pas comme si Ton disoit en Latin : 
" Valde sum inquietus, ex qua die quietus sum a te."* 

Much depends on the feelings and habits of the word- 

* " Mechanisme des Langues," Sect. 175 



127 

makers and word-users as, perhaps, in the language of 
post-horses, humanity may signify cruelty. 

Now do not think your thankful pupil impudent for 
confessing that you seem, occasionally, to place too much 
confidence in etymology, when you are analysing im- 
portant terms in morals and metaphysics. You must not 
suspect me of undervaluing the truth of any individual 
derivation, or its logical consequence. The more we 
read and reflect, the more frequently do we discover 
that abstract disputes are commonly mere logomachies, 
wars of words, battles in the air between phantoms 
without souls or bodies. Words, therefore, must be 
examined as with a microscope. 

Even though I have taken the trouble to write out 
these doubts, I should not have put the paper into 
this parcel, if I had not known that Cooper has already 
told you of our scepticism. Since he has turned king's 
evidence, he may be pardoned ; but you can punish 
me, if you please, to-morrow, by sending me to the 
side-table. We shall go to Wimbledon together, and 
perhaps Rogers may accompany us. He is quite inno- 
cent at present, but, to own the truth, there is a con- 
spiracy to treat you as the Prophet in Virgil was 
served by the boys and girl, in compelling you to 



128 

talk philosophy, instead of politics — our motives are 
two. We think it will to you be a " douce violence," 
and we would much rather that you should philoso- 
phise, even at the cost of hearing our own notions 
refuted and laughed at. 



TO THE SAME. 



July, 1794. (Extract.) 

It has been objected by a fine writer to your prime 
favourite, Mr. Locke's important refutation of the doc- 
trine of innate ideas, and to the well-known comparison of 
the intellect to a sheet of blank paper, that " on the 
" paper may be written, sugar is bitter, wormwood is 
" sweet, gratitude is base, envy is noble ; but no force 
" nor fraud can ever print such impressions on the mind,' 
" ' The human soul,' it is added, i has predetermined 
' ' sentiments and tastes springing from a source beyond 
" experience, custom, or choice."* " 

Now, this objection, though it has a plausible appear- 
ance, is not an accurate statement of the fact. Authority, 



129 

and even accident do frequently inscribe false proposi- 
tions on the minds, both of young and old. The memory 
and the understanding are " rasae tabulae," for testimony 
and experience to write upon; though testimony and 
experience, it is true, are controlled by the natures of 
physical and of moral existence, by our senses and by 
our feelings of pain and pleasure : that is, by the very 
constitution both of the universe and of ourselves. It is 
indisputable that our senses do not usually write non- 
sense or falsehood on the memory ; but it is equally true 
that their evidence being mistaken, they do so occa- 
sionally, and nothing but patient, persevering analysis, 
can efface or correct the inscriptions. The difference 
between visible and tangible magnitude, and to use more 
homely examples, the delusive perceptions of pain in an 
amputated limb, and the appearances on the banks of a 
river while we are sailing, " terraeque urbesque rece- 
'* dunt," are decisive proofs of erroneous conclusions. 
Indeed it requires much caution to form right opinions ; 
and, as Dr. Moore observes, " if ideas were innate, it 
" would save much trouble to many worthy persons." 

Leibnitz, after truly respresenting Locke's doctrine as 
an exemplification of the ancient maxim, " Nihil est in 
" intellectu quod non prius fuerat in sensu, " adds, " nisi 

K 



130 

l< intellectus ipse ;•' and Mr. Dugald Stewart warmly 
praises the acuteness of this remark. But how can any 
man think highly of an axiom which has absurdity in its 
very expression ? Only strike out the middle clause, and 
see what can be made of "Nihil est in intellectu nisi 
" intellectus ipse." Why, the question itself in discus- 
sion is, " what are the laws of the intellect, and how do 
" they originate ?" 

In replying to this inquiry, we must, at present, 
mention instinct as well as perception, though, since 
the principle of association (that great sensitive and intel- 
lectual law!) has been carefully traced, the theory of 
instinct is daily becoming less and less necessary to 
account for the phenomena. Here lie (and but little 
below the surface) the seeds of a rich harvest for the 
sickle of future metaphysicians. Sensation and asso- 
ciation will probably be found to account for nearly all 
the appearances. Thus in Ethics, the existence of a 
moral sense cannot be doubted ; but its instinctive, 
innate origin is, I suppose, given up by most philoso- 
phers, and habit, unavoidable habit, is admitted to be 
its source. 

A stumble at the threshold, not unlike Leibnitz' 
false-step, occurs in the elementary dictum of some 



131 

eminent modern materialists : " Movent sed non promo- 
" vent." Two great teachers in this school have defined 
an idea to be " a motion in the brain perceived." Now, 
did any man ever perceive a motion in his brain? 
There may be, and there probably is a motion there, 
and it may be followed by perception ; but who has 
ever perceived the motion, or detected the connection ? 
Anatomists and physiologists may do their utmost, but 
there will always remain an undiscovered something 
between the bodily organ and the percipient power. 

In subjects of this kind (and indeed in all subjects) 
it is best to learn, as it were, the alphabet of the 
doctrine. Many a time something may be found in 
the first chapter of a book, rendering it needless to read 
on ; and when it happens otherwise, still the benefit of 
examining first principles is great. 

The ascent from the bottom of the hill may be 
fatiguing ; but, when the summit is attained, what a 
prospect! What a distance between a minute exami- 
nation of the mere letters composing a word, and the 
sublime theory that may be disclosed in its import ! 

You must sometimes have been surprised by the 
length of your journeys. 



k % 



132 



TO FRANCIS HORNER, ESQ. 

Fredley Farm, 18th June, 1805. 

I am not surprised that you have reflected as you say, 
" again and again," on the subject of our singular conver- 
sation, although you still smile at our having fallen upon 
such a topic, in our long walk among the woods of 
Norbury. No subject can well be more important, and 
none is more perplexing — it is a sea almost without a 
shore. 

In Turgot's article, " Existence," he hardly exag- 
gerates, though he says, " Les degres de probability 
" dont une juste estime et une exacte mesure seroient le 
" comble de la sagacite et de la prudence." 

Hear Lucretius too : 



" Nam nihil egregius quam res Secernere apertas 
" A dubiis." 



And Cicero : " Bene qui conjiciet vatem hunc perhibebo 
" optimum." 

I agree with you, however, that a common opinion 



133 

intimated by Gibbon, in the following passage, is not 
true. 

" I desisted from the pursuit of mathematics, before 
" my mind was hardened by the habit of rigid demon- 
" stration, so destructive of the finer feelings of moral 
" evidence ; which determine the actions and opinions of 
" our lives." 

Are we not more benefited by the habits of close 
attention formed in the study of mathematics, than in- 
jured by the hardening process which he dreaded? 
Surely the necessity of walking all our lives in the 
twilight of probable evidence, corrects the searing in- 
fluence of our seeing occasionally by the blaze of a noon- 
day sun. 

It is remarkable, that the rules of probability have 
always been spoken of as important desiderata, and that 
several of the greatest authors have declared their inten- 
tion to treat of them at length ; but, somehow or other, 
they have always put off the task to another day. Leib- 
nitz even tells Thomas Burnet in a letter, " Si Dieu me 
" donne encore de la vie et de la sante, j'en ferai ma 
" principale affaire." 

It has often struck me, that this never-failing post- 
ponement of the arduous undertaking cannot have arisen 



134 

from a want of courage or of industry ; but that it proves 
only a secret suspicion of the truth, that a complete, or 
even a very useful enumeration of such rules, is imprac- 
ticable. 

Fortunately, the habits always generated by an irre- 
sistible association of ideas and motives well supply the 
deficiency. Only consider the vast multitude, and the 
complication of facts to be dealt with, their infinite 
degrees and shades, and the incalculable consequences 
of the slightest error in the data. A single leaf close to 
the eye may hide a mountain. 

As you have mislaid our short account of those who 
have written on this peculiar subject, I shall copy, on 
the other side, my own imperfect list. What great 
names ! What unperformed promises ! 

As a professional man, you needed not to be reminded 
of Gilbert and Phillips. They are, perhaps, the best 
guides ; since, in law, there are adjudicated principles, 
founded on the learning and experience of the subtlest 
and most pains-taking of men. 

The nature of the evidence to be looked for in any 
particular inquiry, has been often and well considered; 
and herein our great master, Dr. Butler, has shown his 
usual superiority. 



135 

Among the humbler hills of Cumberland, I shall envy 
you the sight of the sublimer mountains in your native 
country : yet, I shall grudge you much more the oppor- 
tunity of discussing these things with Mr. Dugald 
Stewart, either at Kinneil or in Edinburgh. With us, 
metaphysics are out of fashion ; and I hardly know any 
man, but our friend Mackintosh, who cultivates this 
science. He, alas! is gone to another hemisphere; 
and, in his last letter, he talks of forsaking psychology 
for history. 

The List. 

Aristotle; especially Topic, ch. 14, and Ethic, ad 
Nicom., Lib. I. ch. 1. 

Gassendi, Locke, and Leibnitz, passim. 

St. Augustin, " De Utilitate Credendi." 

Rudiger, Reusch, Muller, Hoffman, Kahle, Ahlward. 

Gravesande ; " Introductio ad Philosophiam. 11 — Ley- 
den, 1737, The chapters on simple and complex pro- 
bability : the whole book on the origin of errors : the 
chapter on analysis and synthesis, and other parts relative 
to dexterity in practice. 

Halley's Philosophical Transactions, No. 196, &c. 

Butler's Analogy. 



136 

Borlaeus, " De Lege Probabilitatis." 

Bernoulli, " Ars Conjectandi." 

Buffon, " Arithmetique Morale." 

Hume's treatise " On Human Nature." Vol. I. 

Condorcet's " Essai sur 1' Application de l'Analyse a la 
" Probability des Decisions rendues a la Pluralite des 
" Voix."— Paris, 1785. 

Thorshmid, " Historia Probabilitatis Antiquissima." 
—1749. 

Garve, " De nonnullis quae pertinent ad Logicam Pro- 
" babilitatis."— Halle, 1776. 

The concluding part of Freret's " Essay on the 
•" Evidence of History," in the Memoires de TAcademie. 
Vol. VIII. 12mo. edition. 

Helvetius, " De 1'Homme."— Sect. 2, Note 40. Ch. 15, 
Sect. 9. 

Helvetius, " De PE sprit." — Tom. I., page 7. 

Mendelsohn, as quoted by Pistorius in his Notes on 
Hartley. 

Robins's Answer to Berkeley's " Analyst." 

The latter part of the " Report to the House of Com- 
" mons on the Proceedings in Hastings's Trial, TO^' 
By Mr. Burke. 



137 



TO THE SAME. 

Fredley Farm, July 1, 1805. 

You think that I expressed myself too unguardedly 
in my last letter, when I said that a very useful enume- 
ration of rules is impracticable. Perhaps I did so. 

It is true, also, that the great law of thought, the asso- 
ciation of ideas and feelings in daily life, is too vague in 
its results to be relied upon in abstruse reasoning. The 
difference between them I own to be both unquestionable 
and important. In a scientific experiment, we must 
measure heat by a thermometer, and not by the hand, 
though we need not ask the instrument whether we 
should put on an additional waistcoat. 

The necessity for instant decision in life, renders it 
often prudent to take the chance of being right or wrong, 
without waiting to balance reasons very nicely. In such 
cases, and sometimes even in speculation, this kind of 
credulity is more philosophical than scepticism ; though 
authority in abstruse investigations should usually do 
little more than excite attention, while in practice it 



138 

must guide our conduct, We trust to the mile-stones in 
a journey to York, and do not wait for a trigonometrical 
survey before we set out. In our daily affairs, we 
luckily do not act on a mathematical estimate of proba- 
bilities. Who, for instance, would be perfectly at ease, 
were his life depending on a lottery of 5,000 tickets, 
though there were but one fatal blank in the wheel? 
Yet what is our chance of living out the week ? Moliere's 
well-known couplet ridicules this misapplication of philo- 
sophical arguings : — 

" Raisonner est l'emploi de toute ma maison, 
Et le raisonnement en bannit la raison." 

In experiments and in abstract pursuits, we cannot, 
often, be too hesitating and distrustful. Are those scales 
bad ones that weigh to a scruple ? You will pardon the 
double meaning. Yet, sometimes, even in such inquiries, 
while truth lies on the surface, we dig and dig only to 
turn up errors, almost as ridiculously as the monkey's 
carefully examining the back of a looking-glass to find 
out the image. 

The mental habits formed in the streets and in the 
study are more than different — they are sometimes at 
variance with each other ; and superiority in science, as 



139 

you well remember, does not always imply the soundest 
judgment in morals or in religion. Pascal, a superlative 
mathematician and an exquisite controvertist, believed 
that miracles were performed by a holy pickle, and wore 
under his shirt an unintelligible amulet. 

How to measure precisely the danger of believing too 
readily or too reluctantly, I do not know ; and, though 
you are right in thinking that it would be advantageous 
to study the maxims of evidence, yet you are quite wrong 
in supposing that I can suggest a single one that is either 
new or incontrovertible. 

The difficulties are many, and one springs up at the 
very outset : for the probability itself of a fact, by pre- 
possessing the mind, may prevent due examination, and 
become a reason for distrusting the general belief. 
Then, as we go on, argument confutes argument, fact 
opposes fact, testimony contradicts testimony — one man 
doubts the Bible, another believes the Gazette. ' A person 
thinks he has a pain in his arm after it has been cut 
off. Cross the fingers, and one pebble feels like two. 
Do we not most plainly see the sun moving along the 
heavens ? But these are old remarks, and they do not 
justify scepticism ; they only call for caution. 

Do what we will, we must philosophise, well or ill, 



140 

and the minds of the ignorant swarm with insect- 
hypotheses ; they for ever generalise too soon and too 
much. Objects at a distance, or seen by a mere glance, 
are much alike, and all colours are the same to those 
that are in the dark. Lessing has declared, that if the 
Almighty had offered truth in one hand, and the art of 
searching for it in the other, he would have taken the 
latter. This is pretty strong ; and very different is the 
fashionable creed in our time ; though it is confessed by 
some, that metaphysics are good preparatory studies, as 
some green crops may be profitably raised, if to be 
ploughed into the land intended to bear more useful 
grain. It is allowed, too, that they may invigorate the 
faculties, as archers strengthen their arms by shooting 
into the air. 

I think I see you smiling at this long postscript to 
my last letter (for it is no more), as a new (I wish I could 
say an amusing) instance of the inutility of such pursuits, 
ending, after many turnings and windings, just where 
they began. You look a little giddy just now, after this 
intellectual waltz, this jaunt in a round-about ; " vacuum 
" per inane volutus." Take down directly one of your 
law-books ; read but two pages, and the walls of your 
chambers will again stand still. 



141 



TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

January 8, 1830. 

Your friend must have been in a very good humour, 
when he spoke so civilly of my hasty plan for the study 
of that much ridiculed science, metaphysics; and you 
must have been more than reasonably humble, when, 
being so much better informed than I am, you could 
have any wish to ask my feeble help in directing your 
young and eager correspondent. Why ! you surely have 
forgotten that I do not read the German writers, whom 
you have of late esteemed somewhat more highly than 
you formerly did. Perhaps you are too busy to spare 
the time for such a sketch, and any desire of yours is 
sufficient to overcome even my reluctance to appear as 
teaching him from whom I am accustomed to learn. 
I thought you justly blamed Mr. Dugald Stewart the 
other day, for having spoken so decidedly of the German 
philosophy, without having the means of examining the 
books of its original inventors ; yet, pardon me, I must, 
though with real diffidence, own, that so far as I am 



142 

enabled, by the French and English expositors to com- 
prehend their doctrines, they seem to be chiefly ancient 
errors newly christened and made formidable by the 
disguise of a systematic and mysterious nomenclature — 
an old play with new dresses and decorations. The 
cobwebs appear to be spun with scientific formality, 
and with some elegance. Of course, those learned 
persons, who have taken the trouble to learn the new 
language, will say, that " the grapes are sour ;" I hope 
they have found them sweet and nutritive. In our 
English gardens they do not ripen. Now, then, you will 
acknowledge that I am a blind guide, and not fit to 
be trusted. Give this caution to the young student; 
but here, notwithstanding, is the List that you request, 
and you will see that I by no means advise an inquirer 
to read in a chronological order. * 

Perhaps the following is a convenient arrangement of 
the works to be studied. 

Locke's " Conduct of the Understanding." 

The first book of his " Essay." 

Duncan's w Logic," not as a Logic, but as a clear and 
elegant exposition of Locke's elementary opinions. 

Hobbes's " Treatise on Human Nature." 

The first nine chapters of the " Leviathan." 



143 

Hobbes's " Treatise on Liberty and Necessity." 

Hobbes's " Computatio," in his Latin works, which are 
not in the folio edition. 

Locke, as you know, has borrowed from Gassendi and 
from Hobbes, though he prudently did not venture to 
quote the latter, foreseeing that he should call up a host 
of implacable and powerful enemies. 

Hartley's " Theory," paying no attention to his 
hypothesis of vibrations. 

Condillac " Logique," and " Essai sur TOrigine de nos 
" Connoissances." 

N. B. — I have a manuscript of Hartley's Theory, 
dated many years before Condillac had published. 

Bonnet — " Psychologies and his " Essai Analytique," 
are good, but they may be deferred or omitted. 

The remainder of Locke's " Essay." 

Collins on " Liberty and Necessity." 

Dr. Clark's metaphysical works. 

Reid's " Enquiry."" His larger work may be looked 
at cursorily. 

All Dugald Stewart's works — for, though he is some- 
times wrong in his elementary principles, he is always 
an instructive, elegant, and encouraging writer. 

Berkeley's " Theory of Vision," which, I know, you 



144 

justly consider as an inestimable contribution to the 
science. 

Whateley's " Logic." 

By this time, Aristotle must be consulted. The in- 
dexes will facilitate the search ; and, if the tyro is not a 
thorough hellenist, let him get help from the best trans- 
lators, or rather the paraphrasers and commentators on 
the " Ethics, " "Politics," and " Analytics/' 
Cudworth's " Immutable Morality." 
Butler's " Analogy," and all his " Sermons." 
Cooper's " Essay on Moral Obligation," 
Shaftesbury's " Inquiry concerning Virtue." 
Hume's " Enquiry into the Principles of Morals." 
Dr. Johnson's " Review of Soame Jenyns." 
Bentham's " Essay on Legislation." How remarkable 
that he should consider Hume as the original author of 
his ethical system ! 

Mackintosh's Dissertation — to be read with care. 
Dr. Brown's " Lectures." The ethical lectures seem 
to me inferior to the metaphysical, being not only wordy, 
but erroneous in the fundamental principle. 

He has misconceived Hartley's and Hume's opinions ; 
yet, the earliest parts of the work are of much value ; 
especially his account of the origin of our notion of 



145 

extension and external existence. This excepted, it 
appears to me that even his best passages are chiefly 
commentaries on Hartley's thoughts, though he does not 
seem to have read him carefully. Brown is also too 
declamatory and too full of repetitions. 

Mill's "Analysis of the Human Mind." 

The writers here recommended often differ from each 
other ; but it frequently happens that, to understand an 
author, it is necessary to look at his predecessors and 
his antagonists. In most speculations, prevalent opinions 
are either disputed or defended. This should never be 
forgotten. 

I am aware that this is the road-book of a long 
journey ; but, I believe that, in such subjects, " the 
"farthest way about is the nearest way home." I re- 
member Mr. Home Tooke's saying of intellectual philo- 
sophy, that he had become better acquainted with the 
country through having had the good luck, sometimes, to 
lose his way — "Si non errasset fecerat ille minus." 

To you, it is altogether needless to add one word as to 
the probable advantages of such a laborious pursuit of 
first principles, being so well aware, as you are, that 
to begin at the beginning in the sciences, as well as 
in matters of fact is the nearest and safest road to the 



14<5 

end. Even sensible men are too commonly satisfied 
with tracing their thoughts a little way backwards, and 
they are, of course, soon perplexed by a profounder 
adversary. In this respect, most people's minds are 
too like a child's garden, where the flowers are planted 
without their roots. It may be said of morals and of 
literature, as truly as of sculpture and painting, that to 
understand the outside of human nature, we should 
be well acquainted with the inside. You can handle 
the anatomist's knife as well as the artist's pencil. 



147 



TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

January 30, 1831. 

As your Dissertation must, undoubtedly, be published 
separately, I hope it will be done without delay, and 
I am anxious that you should render it complete. This 
will cost you but little trouble, and will require but a 
short addition. 

I have now read it attentively for the second time, 
and I feel it to be merely justice to say, that I think it 
by far the most profound and convincing work on Ethics 
that I have ever met with. In saying so much, I am 
aware that I am giving it no less than the praise of being 
the best book on the best subject in all philosophy. Are 
you content ? 

At the same time, let me own, that I think its value 
would be greatly increased by a short statement of your 
own view of Moral Obligation. This will be little 
more than an abridgment of scattered passages in your 

l2 



148 

Dissertation. Were it otherwise, I should be disin- 
clined to withdraw your attention from more pressing 
and, I fear, more engaging pursuits. 

So much of our happiness inevitably depends on the 
conduct of others,, that it has been a serious inquiry, in 
all times, by what rules we should be guided in our 
mutual intercourse. Indeed, to man only it belongs to 
know what should be as well as what is. 

Few differences of opinion have existed respecting 
these rules, and none but such as can easily be recon- 
ciled, or accounted for; but, far otherwise is the case 
when it has been asked, " What is a good action ?" 
" Why ought we to seek the well-being of others as well 
" as of ourselves V 9 

The answers given you are well acquainted with, and 
they have been enumerated by writers of great learning 
and of much acuteness, To you, therefore, I shall only 
say, that it appears to me indisputable that benevolent 
intention and beneficial tendency must combine to consti- 
tute the moral goodness of an action. To do as much 
good, and as little evil as we can, is the brief and 
intelligible principle that comprehends all subordinate 
maxims. Both good tendency and good will are indis- 
pensable ; for conscience may be erroneous as well <as 



149 

callous, may blunder as well as sleep. Perhaps, a man 
cannot be thoroughly mischievous unless he is honest. 

In truth, practice is also necessary, since it is one 
thing to see that a line is crooked, and another thing to 
be able to draw a straight one. It is not quite so easy 
to do good as those may imagine who never try. 

Neither can it be disputed, I think, that our under- 
standing, our reason (call it which you will) must be 
judge, in the last resort, of every moral quality ; be that 
whatever it may be, which urges us to act, to approve, 
or to condemn. Yet, fortunately, we have not been 
left entirely, nor chiefly, to the cold decisions of our 
intellect. Far readier and stronger motives push us on, 
than the tardy results of rational calculation. Yes! 
feelings have ever blended with convictions in forming 
our habits — habits, beside which nothing is a sufficiently 
prompt and effectual cause of action in human nature. 
Virtue thus soon becomes perfectly disinterested — soon 
so much a feeling as scarcely to seem also a principle ; 
nor is the hypothesis of what is called the moral sense 
necessary ; if, by that term, be meant any faculty innate 
and instinctive. Once formed, the composition is indis- 
soluble ; the current is one, though fed by a thousand 
springs. 



150 

I am fully sensible, too, that the end sought for is 
seldom or never the immediate stimulus to action. 

Now, in what manner habits spring up and grow, is 
no secret to you, nor to any person acquainted with that 
law of our nature which is called Association by Hartley, 
Suggestion by Brown, and Sequence by Mill. The first 
has traced them to their sources. 

With you, I regret that no term, yet employed, indi- 
cates the singleness of the compound, when once the 
ingredients have been blended. 

Thus far, probably, no real difficulty occurs ; but where 
is to be found a short, clear, and satisfactory explanation 
of the obligatoriness of moral conduct ? Certainly not in 
Paley. Yet it must ever have been unspeakably desirable 
to ascertain what is meant by such words as ought, should, 
duty, merit, demerit. In every language there are cor- 
responding terms, but it will be enough to analyse them 
in our own. 

I conjecture that this deficiency has arisen from the 
inadequacy of a definition to explain the force of words 
that have been gathering associations from the beginning 
of life, from the cradle to the grave. 

Etymology seldom accounts for the modem meaning 



151 

of a word ; yet it is often useful to ask the first question 
of etymology. 

It seems as if the notion of debt were always visible 
in these terms ; and, if so, they are plainly instances 
of a common figure of speech employing the name of a 
striking part to designate the whole. But I am ventur- 
ing beyond my purpose, and on such a theme, " Satius 
" est silere quam parum dicere." 



VERSES. 



A NEW EDITION. 



" Neque si quis scribat, uti nos, 
Sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam."— 

Horat., Sat. IV. Lib. 1. 



CONTENTS. 



EPISTLE 

I. — To an Eminent Poet. 

II. — To a Lady with the Plays of Shakspeare. 
III. — To a Friend on Marriage. 
IV. — From the Alps. 
V. — To a very Young Lady. 
VL— To a Friend. 
VII. — To a Brother. 
VIII. — To a Friend at his Villa. 
IX. — To Samuel Rogers, Esq, 
X. — To the Lord Holland. 
An Epitaph. 
The Rose. 
True Philosophy. 



EPISTLE 

TO AN EMINENT POET. 



Hie error tamen, et levis hsec insania quantas 
Virtutes habeat." — 

Hor. Epis. I. Lib. 2, 



WRITTEN IN 1792. 



159 



I. 



Yes ! thou hast chosen well " the better part," 
And, for the triumphs of the noblest art, 
Hast wisely scorn'd the sordid cares of life ; 
Its gaudy joys, and its ambitious strife. 

Less fitted for the many, than the few 
That love the Beautiful, and seek the True, 
Too proud to pay his honour for his fame, 
To wish a statesman's, or a conqueror's name, 
The Poet shuns the Senate, and the Field ; 
Known in his verse, but in his life conceaPd : 
As some unheeded flower, that loves the shade, 
Is by the fragrance of its leaf betray'd. 

Far from the world's broad glare, the din of men, 
He seeks the pathless wood, the twilight glen, 
The silent mountain, the deserted stream,. 
Unseen, unheard, to woo the waking dream : 
Now from the hanging rock and foaming shore, 
Raves to the deaf sea, while its waters roar : 



160 

Or musing sits, while airy voices call, 
Whole summer-days beside the torrent-fall. 
O'er the wild heath, alone, at eve he strays, 
To catch with lingering look the sun's last rays : 
Or watch the prying moon-beam, as it roves 
Through towers forsaken long, and haunted groves : 
And, as each glimpse some phantom-form reveals, 
A strange belief, unknown till then, he feels : 
But oft, when Fancy wakes her shadowy broods, 
On his shut sense no sight, no sound, intrudes, 
To break the spells that bid her visions play 
In hues far brighter than belong to day. 
Then from his lips burst forth the unbidden strains 
In that wild hour when reason scarcely reigns. 

Now in the closet's stillness, through the night, 
He watches by the taper's trembling light, 
The deep recesses of his mind explores, 
Wakes every sleeping thought in memory's stores, 
With eager joy each dawning hint pursues, 
Yet courts in vain the coy, capricious Muse : 
For still he finds his struggling powers too weak 
The dazzling vision, swelling theme to speak : 
The tuneless sounds, the sullied speech, of earth 
Refuse to give his revelations birth : 



161 

Still the dark phrase, th' unmarshalled thoughts confess 

His shame, his glory, rapture and distress, 

Mute till the Muse her aid propitious brings, 

* And heav'nly themes in heav'n's own accents sings. 

High o'er the earth's revolving Poles he soars, 
Scorning her trodden paths, her fathonVd shores, 
With dauntless hand the gates of heav'n unfolds, 
And all its glories, unrebuk'd, beholds ! 
Or, darting downward, with presumptuous flight, 
Explores the realms of everlasting night ; 
Or calls to life creations all his own, 
Where brighter suns, and sweeter shades are known, 
And fairer forms still charm the unsated eye 
Than here just bloom to fade, just breathe to die. 
No vapours rise as the fair Morn awakes, 
But, all unveil'd, light from her beauty breaks : 
On odorous wing unwearied zephyrs play, 
Murmur sweet music, and abate the day : 
In clouds of gold the lingering evenings close, 
And every night the moon's mild lustre glows : 

* Poesis etiam ad animi magnitudinem et ad mores conferat 

— Et merito divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit. — Bacon, De 
Augm. Scient, Cap. XIII. Lib. 2. 



162 

O'er gold and gems the living waters flow, 

Flowers of all hues, all scents, uncultur'd, blow ; 

Rich harvests (here the slow reward of toil) 

Bend the wild bough, and crown the untroubled soil : 

On every breeze soft notes of rapture swell 

From echoing rock, green hill, or bowery dell : 

And through the year (one bright unchanging Spring) 

The coy night-warbling bird delights to sing. 

No hawk pursues the minstrels of the air, 

Nor shuns the kid the lions bloodless lair ; 

And none harm man, nor are of man the prey, 

And friendship fears no change, love no decay : 

No pleasures pall, no cares, no pains annoy, 

To ask is to obtain, to wish is to enjoy. 

Scenes that recal the visions of that world 
Whence man's rebellious Spirit erst was hurPd, 
The fading memory, fainting hopes restore 
Of all he held, of all he was before. 

Yet were this all his boast, how poor the praise ! 
He proudly seeks man's abject thoughts to raise, 
Wakes all our hopes of glory, fears of shame, 
Incites to merit, and rewards with fame. 

Heroes and kings their names, their forms, may trust 
To the grav'd medal, or the mimic bust, 






163 

Their deeds consign to Painting's glowing hand, 

Raise pillars to the sky, and bid them stand : 

In vain ! — the aspiring column prostrate falls, 

The colours vanish from the faithless walls ; 

Soon the dim coin shall mock the poring eye ; 

Born of the rock the breathing statue die. 

Like man his proudest works to dust return : 

See ! through the shattered tomb the mould'ring urn ! 

Temple and Tower shall strew th' encumber' d plain : 

Of mightiest empires not a trace remain^ 

But verse ! immortal, ever in its prime, 

Defies decay, and triumphs over Time ! 

Inspir'd, not taught, the bard's exalted art, 
In sacred trust, to few the heav'ns impart : 
A new, a nobler sense in man to wake, 
From all his instincts all that's earthly take, 
O'er Nature's works a nameless charm to throw; 
On life a grace, a glory, to bestow ; 
Its duties dignify, its joys enhance, 
And lend to truth the interest of romance, 
To teach content, yet bid our hopes aspire, 
Endear this world, and fit us for a higher. 

Proud of his high commission he disdains 
To charm by vulgar, or unhallow'd strains ; 

m2 



164 

Yet stoops to guide the heedless steps of youth, 
And leads through fiction's flowery path to truth : 
With pious fraud seduces man from ill, 
And courts his fancy to controul his will. 

Sweet though his numbers as the murmuring stream, 
And bright each image as the morning beam, 
Though the wit sparkle, though the passion flame, 
And Fashion dictate to obedient Fame ; 
Yet — if the theme be trivial or impure, 
The verse is mortal : — it shall not endure : 
Virtue's the vital spark, the deathless soul, 
That must pervade, and animate the whole : 
He from the altar borrows all his fires, 
And consecrates to heav'n what heav'n inspires. 

Oh haste ! the laurel twine, the statue raise, 
Vast the desert, and equal be the praise ! 
Lo ! Plenty at his feet her tribute flings ! 
His rank with Princes, and his seat with Kings ! 
Ah no ! — in penury, perhaps in shame, 
He lives, whom, lost, contending nations claim ; 
Lives — not dismayed, nor murmuring at his lot, 
Content though poor, not humbled though forgot. 
He can at once foresee, and brave his doom, 
Sure that the Palm shall flourish o'er his tomb, 



165 

With good for ill a thankless world repays, 

And proud to have serv'd mankind foregoes its praise. 

How different is thy fate, accomplished friend ! 
Whom still the most commended most commend : 
Thine all the honours of a well-earn'd name, 
Secure of present as of future fame ; 
Thine fortune's favours too, and thine the art 
(So rarely learnt !) to use them, and to impart. 

Thus gifted, thus encouraged, be it thine 
To lift thy light on high, and bid it shine, 
A star! to guide the wanderer as he strays 
O'er life's dark ocean, and its trackless ways : 
Thy course so well begun pursuing still, 
Obey thy call ; thy destiny fulfil ; 
And pour out all the treasures of thy mind, 
Bestow M on thee, in trust for all mankind. 



EPISTLE 

TO A LADY, WITH SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS. 



Qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, 
Plenius, ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit."— 

Hob. Epis. II. Lib. 1. 



WRITTEN IN 1788, 



169 



II. 



Ah ! though invited by the Spring and Thee, 
In vain I sigh, and struggle to get free : 
'Mid smoke and noise, repining, I must stay, 
And leave untasted all the sweets of May ; 
To waste in stifling crowds the fragrant hours, 
And lose the year's first shoots, and earliest flowers. 

For now the tardy white-thorn blows, and now 
The blossom hangs on every orchard-bough : 
Earth seems new-born, each blade and leaflet teems 
With murmurs of delight, and golden gleams, 
As waking myriads swarm below, above, 
And the dead quicken, and the living love. 
And now each morn what clouds of incense rise ! 
What hymns of rapture ! grateful to the skies ! 
While all night long a sweet sad voice is heard, 
The soothing vespers of the wakeful bird. 
Man too reviving his glad tribute pays : 
(Most cause has he for thankfulness and praise) 



170 

Each vernal scene to his prophetic eye 
More dear, as harbinger of Summer nigh, 
Soon to expand her warm maternal wing, 
And nurse the tender infants of the Spring : 
So shall the earth her countless broods sustain, 
And of her millions none be born in vain, 

Yet must I stay, though bidden to attend 
The blissful rite that gives thee to my friend, 
And at the altar hear thy trembling voice, 
And see thy blushes, own thy maiden-choice. 
Though absent present, I unite my prayer, 
(Needless if love excluded every care) 
That Fate, befriending virtue, may bestow 
More than ye hope, and all ye wish below. 

Source of my friend's best joys, who still shall find, 
When thy cheek fades, fresh beauties in thy mind, 
Sweet Soother of those ills that all must share, 
And he must learn, tho' blest with thee, to bear, 
Could Love alone life's few short hours employ, 
Bidding Time borrow swifter wings from Joy, 
Sages had taught, and Poets sung> in vain, 
All art were folly, and all science pain — 
But oh ! ye days when beauty's soft controul 
First woke the slumbering instincts of the soul, 



171 

Sudden and swift when Love's resistless flame 

Flash'd through each kindling atom of our frame, 

When the gay visions of its infant hours, 

And all its first fine ecstasies were ours, 

Too soon your value from your loss we learn ! 

Too soon ye fly ! ah ! never to return ! 

Some busy fiend of Folly's envious broods 

In our defenceless paradise intrudes, 

And lures from peace and joy to grief and shame, 

Whispering vain hopes of pleasure, power, or fame. 

Exiled these blissful bowers, before our eyes 
A bleak wide world in cheerless prospect lies, 
Where some must force, by unrelenting toil, 
Their scanty comforts from a stubborn soil, 
While others sigh, amid their stores to find 
No cure for care, no medicine for the mind, 
To still the pang that conscience can impart, 
And calm the restless pulses of the heart, 
Throbbing as burns ambition's feverish fire, 
Faltering with grief, or fluttering with desire. 
Still must we bear, though shunning public strife, 
The small hostilities of private life, 
Those nameless, countless evils that infest 
All, all that breathe, the happiest and the best. 



172 

Even Love from every ill is not secure, 
But has its hours of absence to endure. 
These hours to cheat, and speed the sluggish day, 
What spell so witching as the poet's Lay? 

He from its cares the enraptur'd soul can steal, 
While busied fancy quite forgets to feel : 
Tranc'd in the day-dreams of the fabling Muse, 
The dull realities of life we lose ; 
The senses sleep ; truth yields to fiction's power ; 
A transient frenzy fills the ecstatic hour. 

But this the humblest triumph of his art ; 
Which soothes to soften, melts to mould the heart ; 
Calls forth new powers, with loftier passions fires, 
And generous thoughts, and glorious deeds inspires. 

Not thus the world's contagious school, for thence 
The head buys knowledge at the heart's expense : 
An after- wisdom, ever learnt too late 
To save from error, or its ills abate ; 
A purblind prudence, missing still its aim, 
Almost a vice, though with a virtue's name ; 
Knowledge of evil, hurtful, humbling truth ! 
That, while it teaches, taints the thoughts of youth, 
Its cheerful faith with dreary doubts annoys, 
Daunts its brave hopes, and blights its opening joys. 



173 

Vice is not safely seen, though seen forewarn'd ? 
Better unknown, than known but to be scorn'd : 
More wise in happy ignorance to remain, 
Than in the tranquil bosom nurse Disdain, 
And Hate, and Terror, passions all unblest, 
Unmeet to fill the sanctuary of the breast. 

Fear is low born, but Hope of high descent, 
Allied at once to Virtue and Content. 

Ah ! if we see no smiles in Nature's face, 
Her gifts lose half their value, all their grace : 
Trembling we take them, and with thankless mind, 
(Deaf to the harmony, the beauty blind,) 
Too oft revile the bounteous, blissful plan, 
And its great Author, in his image, Man. 

Then be the Muse thy teacher, and thy guide, 
Nor heed the bigot's fear, the sage's pride, 
* In Shakspe are's Scenes, the unsullied mind may see, 
Safe from its harms, the world's epitome ; 
May learn to fill its duties, meet its cares, 
Enjoy its blessings, and escape its snares. 

* He that has read Shakspeare with attention, will perhaps find 
little new in the crowded world. 

Johnson. 



174 

In life's gay glare, as in the solar blaze, 
Confused and lost each mingling colour plays ; 
Opprest, the baffled eyeball turns away, 
Nor can discern the tints that form the day : 
His page prismatic breaks the dazzling mass, 
And bids the blended hues distinctly pass. 

No dead remains of ancient art he knew, 
But from the life man's naked nature drew : 
Each changeful feature of the soul pourtray'd, 
And caught each latent muscle as it play'd ; 
The bold but faithful sketch shall live, and last 
Till the decaying world itself be past. 

He the dim glass of learning could despise, 
And look through nature with unaided eyes : 
The sun of genius, with resistless ray, 
On all her dark recesses pours the day. 
He sees, exposed to his presumptuous glance, 
The magic cavern, and the fairy-dance ; 
Dares the dread secrets of the grave to trace, 
And view its awful wonders face to face ; 
The sullen spectres at his will employs, 
The murderer's couch to haunt, to blast his festal joys. 

But themes like these to loftier strains belong, 
And the Bride trembles at the lengthening song. 



175 

For now, in fair perspective, rise to view, 
All the heart sigh'd for, all the fancy drew 
In those gay hours when love was life's employ, 
And Hope was young, and credulous of joy. 
Oh ! may she find each flattering promise truth, 
And Time fulfil the prophecies of Youth. 
But, should Fate frown, may virtue's cheerful ray, 
More bright than suns, illume life's cloudy day, 
Dispel the shades that o'er its evening rise, 
And light her footsteps to the expecting skies. 



176 



POSTSCRIPT. 



1804. 



Thus, long long since, my verse prophetic flow'd, 
But Fate has more than I foretold bestow'd : 
Still, blest and blessing, each succeeding year 
Has found thee happier, lovelier, and more dear. 

Yes ! there are charms that scorn the spoiler Time, 
More than predicted by my timorous rhyme : 
Then the gay bride — the wife, the mother now, 
A graver beauty decks thy matron brow. 
Years while they stole have giv'n grace for grace, 
Thy virtues are recorded in thy face : 
A thousand tender thoughts have gather'd there, 
More likeness to thy heart thy features bear. 
More of his virtues too, who still is thine, 
Smile in thy looks, and through thy manners shine, 

Of those we love unconsciously we learn : 
We think their thoughts, and with their passions burn, 



177 

Breathe the same accents, the same idiom speak : 
Strong in their strength — but in their weakness weak. 

How grateful then art thou, to him allied, 
Whose merits were thy choice, and are thy pride ! 

So shall ye both (long hence) survive in one, 
Both still be lov'd and honour'd in your son : 
Not o'er his form alone your semblance play, 
His mind your blended influence shall betray : 
The mother's softness, and the father's fire, 
In one harmonious character conspire : 
With feeling spirit, modesty with worth, 
Shall be the proofs, and blessings of his birth. 






EPISTLE 



TO A FRIEND ON MARRIAGE. 



Poor moralist ! and what art Thou ?" 

Gray. 



WRITTEN IN 1790. 



N 2 



81 



III, 



Here, where his rapid flood the Tamar leads 
Through desert cliffs, wild woods, and pathless meads, 
Or where, in conflict with the lessening shores, 
Up the sweet inland- vale the Atlantic pours, 
While with the thrush the seamew blends her notes, 
Or on the rocking surge in slumber floats, 
And oft the ploughman stays his team to mark 
The drooping flag of many a captured bark 
Following the conqueror's course, as on he rides, 
And stems, with foaming prow, the murmuring tides, — 
Here, once again I bid the world adieu, 
And my heart turns to friendship and to you. 

Friend of my youth ! who first, with fostering ray, 
Play'd round my morn of life, now gild my day, 
(Nor shall one sullen vapour rise to lour, 
And cloud its influence o'er my evening hour) 
While you, in plighted faith, and mutual love, 
Find joys on earth resembling those above, 



182 

xVnd, proud a father's hallowed name to bear, 
Taste pleasure's cordial in the cup of care, 
Sad through a solitary world I stray, 
With none to cheer my steps, nor chide my stay. 

Not ours to slumber in supine content, 
Or only wake to weep o'er time misspent : 
To man a task is set, a blessing given, 
To do the will, and earn the joys of heav'n. 

Engrafted on the stock of duty rise 
Fruits ever fair, transplanted from the skies, 
And far more rare, more precious, than of old 
Bloom'd on the Hesperian tree in living gold: 
Than those more subtle to revive and save 
# Which to the wandering Chief great Hermes gave. 
Or Helen crush'd to drug the wondrous bowl 
f That sooth'd his son, and stay'd his drooping soul ; 
For these have power the wounded mind to heal, 
And bid remorse itself forget to feel ; 
And these are yours, who, gifted to excel, 
Preferr'd in peace and privacy to dwell ; 
And chose the safe, sequester'd path, that steals 
Far from the highway-crowd, and crash of wheels : 

* Odyssey, Book X. line 302. 
f Odyssey, Book IV. line 220. 



183 

Who, skilled in that rare art, the art to live, 
Ask not the world for more than it can give ; 
But, taught to fear its strife, and shun its noise, 
Disdain its honours, and distrust its joys, 
Have sought content, not wealth, esteem, not fame, 
And have deserved, though not desired, a name. 
To thy pure mind reveal'd, in early youth, 
The seeming paradox, but sovereign truth, 
(Oft to the aged and the wise unknown) 
That seeking others' good we find our own. 

Generous self-love ! whose dictates to pursue 
(Alas ! the unenvied privilege of few !) 
Fills with such sweet employment every hour, 
That whether wayward Fortune shine or lour, 
Whether above ambition or below, 
A bliss unborrow'd of the world we know, 
And, blest in blessing, proudly can disclaim 
Rank, riches, power, and (harder task !) ev'n fame. 

The social Passions their own bliss create, 
A bliss that's scarcely subject even to Fate. 
Friendship though call'd to suffer or endure: 
Love without hope, that finds, that seeks, no cure ; 
Than can persist unknown, persist unshar'd, 
For Love, like Virtue, is its own reward : 



184 

Pity though unavailing : vain Regret 
For those we see no more, but ne'er forget, 
(As pensive Memory all the past restores, 
Yearns for the absent, or the lost deplores :) 
The Fear that watches in a mother's eye 
When first her infant breathes its feeble cry, 
That never sleeps, but guards him, as he strays, 
Through all the perils of his early days: 
Even these, exposed to pain, alarm, or grief, 
In their own generous nature find relief: 
Nay, often, in the sharpest wounds they feel 
There springs a balm that can do more than heal, 
That can delight, as well as ease, impart, 
A subtler pleasure kindle in the heart 
Than selfish triumphs, or the dead repose, 
The sullen quiet, that the Stoic knows. 

Cold on the mountain-heath, exposed and bare, 
The lone oak shudders in the troubled air, 
Around his stem her arms no woodbine flings, 
Beneath his shade no tender sapling springs : 
His leaf untimely falls : his shatter'd form 
Shrinks from the fury of the driving storm ; 
But born in happier soil, in grove or wood, 
Shelter'd, his spreading branches long had stood, 



185 

And borne their annual honours green in age, 
Safe from the summer-blaze, the winter's rage. 

Emblem of him whose solitary cares 
No partner of his pleasures more than shares : 
For love too proud, for happiness too wise, 
He looks on beauty with undazzled eyes, 
Computes, compares, and gravely, sagely cold, 
In cautious folly, rash delay, grows old ; 
Doubts till fastidious youth his suit derides, 
And Time (the coward's fortitude) decides. 

Haply he seeks in mercenary arms 
Love^ modest pleasures, and mysterious charms, 
Presumes to hope its transports can be sold, 
Trusting the weak omnipotence of gold. 
But these Wealth cannot buy ; Vice cannot know ; 
Pure are the countless sources whence they flow ; 
From faith long tried, from lives that blend in one ; 
From many a soft word spoken, kind deed done ; 
Too small, perhaps, for each to have a name, 
Too oft recurring much regard to claim : 
As in fair constellations may combine 
The stars that, singly, undistinguish'd shine. 
Love, too, is proud, and will not be controll'd ; 
Timid, and must be rather guess'd than told ; 



186 

Would be divin'd, but then by only one, 

And fain the notice of all else would shun : 

It stays not to forgive, it cannot see 

The failings from which none, alas ! are free : 

Blind but to faults, quick-sighted to descry 

Merit oft hid from a less searching eye : 

Ever less prone to doubt than to believe ; 

Ever more glad to give than to receive : 

Constant as kind, tho' changing nature, name ; 

Many, yet one ; another, yet the same : 

Tis Friendship, Pity, Joy, Grief, Hope, nay Fear, 

Not the least tender when in form severe. 

It dwells with every rank, in every clime, 

And sets at nought the malice even of Time : 

In youth more rapturous, but in age more sure, 

Chief blessing of the rich, sole comfort of the poor. 

But mark the evening of the lone man's life ! . 
Deserted then ! perhaps disturb'd by strife ! 
Ah then ! in dreary age, 'tis his to sigh 
For tender care, and soothing sympathy. 
By his sick bed no long-lov'd face appears ; 
No well-known step, no well-known voice he hears : 
Strangers, for hire, his last sad moments tend; 
No children's prayers relenting heav'n ascend : 



187 

He dies, and is forgot ! — Scarce known his doom ; 
And weeds soon hide his unfrequented tomb. 

Start from thy trance, thou fool ! awake in time ! 
Snatch the short pleasures of thy fleeting prime ! 
While yet youth's healthful fever warms the blood, 
And the pulse throbs in vigour's rapid flood ; 
While love invites, whose spells possess the power 
Ages of bliss to crowd into an hour ! 
Though to fond memory each blest hour appears 
Rich with the transports of eventful years ! 
To Love alone such magic can belong : 
The present still so short ! the past so long ! 

But youth is on the wing, and will not stay ; 
Fair morn too oft of a foul wintery day ! 
A warm but watery gleam extinguished soon 
In storm, or vapour, gathering o'er its noon : 
And should the unwearied Sun shine on, till night 
Quench his hot ray and cloud his cheerful light, 
How fast the shadow o'er the dial flies ! 
While to himself fond man a debtor dies, 
Trusting to-morrow still, or misemploy'd 
He leaves the world unknown, and unenjoy'd. 

Haste then as nature dictates dare to live ; 
Ask of thy youth the pleasures youth should give : 



188 

So shall thy manhood and thy age confess 
That of the past the present learns to bless ; 
And thou shalt boast, with mingling joy and pride, 
The wife, the mother, dearer than the bride, 
And own, as on thy knees thy children grow, 
That home becomes an early heav'n below. 

There still an angel hovers o'er the fence, 
To drive with flaming sword all evil thence : 
There, in a little grove of kindred, rise 
Those tender plants, the human charities, 
Which, in the world's cold soil and boisterous air, 
Withhold their blossoms, and refuse to bear, 
Or all unshelter'd from the blaze of day, 
Their golden fruit falls premature away. 

Hail holy marriage ! hail indulgent law ! 
Whose kind restraints in closer union draw 
Consenting hearts and minds : — By thee confm'd 
Instinct's ennobled, and desire refined. 
Man is a savage else, eondemn'd to roam 
Without companion, and without a home : 
And helpless woman, as alone she strays, 
With sighs and tears her new-born babe surveys ; 
But choosing, chosen, never more to part, 
New joys new duties blending in her heart, 



189 

Endow'tl alike to charm him and to mend, 
Man gains at once a mistress and a friend : 
In one fair form obtaining from above 
An angel's virtues and a woman's love : 
Then guarded, cherish'd, and confest her worth, 
She scorns the pangs that give his offspring birth, 
a Lifts for the father's kiss the laughing boy, 
And sees and shares his triumph and his joy. 

Source of our bliss, and solace of our woe, 
To thee our value as our joy we owe ; 
On thee all morals, and all laws depend, 
And, reft of thee, society must end ! 

This earth resplendent in her rich array ! 
Herb, tree, fruit, flower ; yon radiant orb of day ! 
The moon, fair mirror of his soften'd light ! 
The stars that crowd the purple vault of night ! 
The wandering comet's bright, portentous train ! 
The expanse of heav'n ! th' illimitable main ! 
The storm that lifts its billows to the sky ! 
The bursting cloud whence fiery arrows fly ! 
The awful voice of thunder! and the shock 
Of earthquakes, when the Globe's huge pillars rock ! 
Its countless flocks and herds ! the savage brood 
That shake the forest with their cries for food ! 



190 



The unwieldy sovereigns of the living deep ! 

The shoals half-sentient in her caves that sleep ! 

The swarms that revel on each leaf and blade 

In rainbow-hues, and burning gold array'd ! 

The exulting tenants of the peopled sky ! 

Those worlds on worlds that mock the assisted eye ! 

Stupendous Scene ! — Could less than heav'n create 

The parts so wondVous of a whole so great ? 

— Without their lord, the moral being Man, 

Say what are all ? — a Chaos, not a plan ; 

Man placed on earth, behold the full design 

Declares aloud its Author is divine : 

And hark ! a voice from heav'n proclaims his will 

That favour'd man's immortal race should fill 

The world's wide fields, o'er every tribe should reign, 

Crown the whole work, and nought be made in vain. 



EPISTLE 

FROM THE ALPS. 



Mi giovera narrare altrui 

Le noviti vedute, e dir, io fui."— 

Tasso Ger. Lib. XV. 38. 



THUN, 1816. 



193 



IV. 



Releas'd at length I drop that heavy oar, 

Which thousands (once fast chain' d) must quit no more, 

And like a steed let loose, that shakes his mane, 

And loudly neighing, scours across the plain, 

With kindling hopes, and swelling heart, I fly 

For health and pleasure to a fairer sky. 

The anchor's weigh' d, the north -wind fills the sail: 
Adieu, dear England! France, thy shores I hail! 
Not now to linger in thy lengthening plains, 
Or gilded city, revelling in its chains ; 
Reft of its spoil, those miracles of art ! 
Which through th' enchanted eye exalt the heart: 
For they reconquer'd twice, and repossest, 
Shall with their rightful lords for ever rest ; 
Borne back in triumph by the blood-stain'd arms 
Of those, who from the cradle felt their charms, 



194 

Yet bought too dearly in that gallant strife 
By many a lov'd, and long lamented life. 

Far to the south in joyful haste I run 
To bask in valleys nearer to the sun : 
And lo ! where, fearless of his hottest fires, 
High o'er the clouds the hoary Alp aspires ! 
In vain the thunder rolls, the lightnings fly, 
His icy summit braves the burning sky. 

O'er earth and heav'n what sudden splendours play, 
As in the west declines the orb of day ! 
But ah ! the glory fades, and melts away. 

As gay my hopes, as swiftly have they fled, 
Of those bereft whose faltering steps I led, 
Of those so dear, whose absence dims the day, 
While sad and lonely onward still I stray. 

Oh ! were they here the visions to behold, 
That still before my moistening eyes unfold ! 

In vain ! — for England and for home they sail, 
To shelter that sweet flower so fair, so frail, 
Which now in hope, and now alas ! in fear, 
They strive thro' sunshine, and thro' show'r, to rear. 
Then flow my verse ! to soothe their just regret : 
Nor their last wish, their parting charge forget. 



195 

The rude, faint sketch their patience shall forgive 
For how shall language bid the landscape live ? 

See hills o'er hills in rich confusion rise ! 
(Their blue tops blending with the distant skies) 
O'er the still lake their giant-shadows throw, 
And view their awful forms revers'd below. 
The dizzy pass where scarce the chamois goes 
O'er seas of ice, and through eternal snows: 
Th' o'erwhelming avalanche, of power to sweep 
Flock, herd, and village down the yawning steep ; 
High o'er the dark abyss the plank that bends 
From cliff to cliff, now sinks, and now ascends 
Beneath the hunter's foot, while, scarcely heard, 
Sails far below, and screams the imperial bird. 
The headlong Fall, on whose resplendent spray 
In tiny circlets its own rainbows play : 
(Oft from the summit flies the ponderous rock 
HurPd down in thunder by the torrent's shock, 
As on it foams, with many an oak up-torn, 
Raging from morn to eve, from eve to morn :) 
The rifted chasm ; the cavern full of night, 
Where the wild brook eludes the baffled sight. 
The countless streams that feed the living lake, 
And gently bid its slumbering waters wake ; 

o2 



196 

While from each bay, behind the sheltering trees, 
Steals many a bark to catch the welcome breeze, 
Spreads the white sail, or lifts the sparkling oar, 
Seeking, for gain or sport, the distant shore, 
Now o^r the willing wave exulting glides, 
Now bravely struggles with the vanquished tides : 
The wilderness of woods ! the vale of flowers ! 
Green, as in spring-time, through the sultry hours, 
By hills o^r-arched that lend both shade and showers. 

Haply of old some gentle Angel, sent 
To heal some grief, or prompt some high intent, 
To smite the oppressor, or uplift the opprest, 
Returning homeward from his high behest, 
Pleas'd with his work of justice or of grace, 
Paus'd here, and left his blessing on the place. 

So fair the land that as its children stray 
Far from their country and their homes away, 
If chance those simple, well-known, sounds they hear 
(Though scarcely music to a stranger's ear) 
Which on their native hills the milk-maid sings, 
(While the slant sun his lengthening shadow flings) 
Her wandering heifer homeward to recal 
From the wild woodland to the sheltering stall, 



197 

What wonder that for these lov'd scenes they yearn. 
And back, in sighs and tears, repentant turn? 

But this the least, Helvetia, of thy praise ! 
That in thee Nature all her charms displays, 
And smiling sits on her exalted throne, 
Fair in eternal youth, majestic and alone ! 
For safe within the rampart of thy rocks 
Wander the myriads of thy herds and flocks, 
The generous vine too gladdens all thy vales ; 
And sickness flies before thy mountain-gales : 
And thine th' enlighten'd industry, that fills 
With plenty every cottage on thy hills, 
Whence, through the darkness of the busy night, 
Gleams, starlike, many a taper's wakeful light ; 
Thine too each Son of Science, whether born 
To teach of other worlds, or this adorn : 
Bold, in the search of knowledge, to explore 
The mine's tremendous secrets, or to soar 
E'en to the glacier's point, and, safely there, 
With mortal lips, inhale "empyrean air;" 
And thine the lofty bard, the letter'd sage, 
Whose glory shall be thine from age to age ; 
In thee too Man is found, as man should be, 
Active and brave, and innocent, and free : 



198 

The last not least, for that secures the rest : 
The willing slave deserves not to be blest ; 
Nor merits more the tyrant, both debased, 
And from the rank of man alike disgraced : 
Both reft of all that should controul us here, 
One without hope, the other without fear, 
Torn all those sure, those subtle ties that bind 
Man to his brother-man, and mind to mind. 
Oh ! then ye natives of this happy land ! 
Assembling all, around your altars stand : 
There shall the Spirits of your fathers rise, 
To hear ye vow the patriot-sacrifice 
Of every feud that separates clan from clan, 
And of your Union mars the-heav'n-taught plan. 
Swear too that none, who dare in arms to strive 
For your best birthright, shall trT attempt survive, 
For well ye know the fraud and force of those 
(At once the unwisest and the worst of foes) 
Who thirst to enslave ye ; though the accursed deed, 
No gain to them, would make ye " poor indeed." 
Oh ! watch, from all your hills, with wary eye, 
The smallest cloud, that darkens in the sky, 
Drawn from your own, or from a foreign soil, 
To blight the harvest of your fathers' toil : 



199 

Revere the sacred memory of the Dead, 
Nor lose the liberty for which they bled ; 
Fulfil the trust to your own children due, 
And leave them all your Sires bequeathed to you. 
For so, when gatherM to their ashes, long 
Your names shall live in story and in song. 
Nor are your hills the limits of your fame, 
Wide as the world the gratitude you claim ; 
All, in your freedom free, your cause shall bless, 
Refuge of all whom prince or priest oppress. 
DoomM for his virtues or his faith to roam, 
In you the injured exile finds a home* ; 
Safe and revered, the Patriot and the Sage 
Smile at the Monk's, or Tyrant's, harmless rage. 
And yet, though fair the land, the people blest, 
In thee, in thee, dear England ! would I rest : 
I love thee better still the more I roam : 
Proud of thee as my country and my home : 
Thou fear'st not foreign nor domestic foes, 
Thy laws no haughty neighbour dares impose, 
Safe in thy valiant sons, thy subject-sea, 
Thou dost not ask permission to be free : 

* Alas! this praise is no longer deserved. 



200 

Nay ! had thy Spartan youth no wall of waves, 
A world confederate could not make them slaves, 
So early taught to think a freeman's life 
Not worth preserving, vanquish'd in that strife. 

But 'tis not now my theme to boast thy charms, 
Thou land of wealth and virtue, arts and arms ! 
Thou art my choice, though changeful, though austere 
Thy clime ; and oft in pain, and oft in fear, 
My panting lip, and labouring breast, inhale 
The winter lingering in thy vernal gale. 

Henceforth (my skill forgot, my strength no more) 
I quit life's stormy sea, and seek the shore ; 
My only task the footsteps to pursue 
(Far, far behind ! ) of those, the virtuous few, 
Who serve, without reward, in Freedom's cause, 
And hourly watch the sanctuary of her laws. 
No more, oh London ! but when duty calls, 
To breathe the cloud that hovers o'er thy walls, 
To stem thy crowds, endure thy deafening noise, 
Gaze at thy splendours, or repent thy joys. 
From thee far off I turn my willing feet 
To the lone quiet of my lov'd retreat : 
To stray from field to field in careless ease, 
And count the blossoms on the tardy trees ; 



201 

Climb the high down to meet the rising sun, 
Or in my copse his mid-day fervour shun. 
Oft as he sinks, accomplished Lock ! behind 
Thy solemn groves, up thy steep lawn I wind 
Unseen, unheard, to mark his crimson ray 
Gleam through the gathering clouds, and fade away ; 
Then, homeward turning, oft the past review ; 
Learning from old faults to escape from new ; 
Or call back joys long-fled, that would not stay, 
Slighted perhaps in youtrfs presumptuous day, 
(Yet youth to age a lesson oft can give, 
And teach its timorous wisdom how to live) 
Now dreaming though awake, I soar in air, 
And build a thousand gorgeous castles there ; 
Then drop into my cottage-home content: 
The night's repose earnM by the day well spent. 
Still happier when by those my Board is cheer'd 
(Kindred or friends) whom love has long endear'd ; 
Or should some honour'd Guest, half smiling, deign 
To trace the limits of my little reign, 
Then proud of both, each varying scene I show ; 
The impending cliff, the gulfy stream below ; 
The box-clad hill, in whose unfading groves, 
Fragrant and fair, the lingering traveller roves ; 



202 

The grey church-spire, the tree-embosom'd town ; 
The clustering flocks that crowd the upland-down ; 
The distant mountain with its far-seen tower, 
Now a sad purple in the summer-shower, 
Now smiling, as the air-born colours play, 
And the Sun's course from dawn to dark betray : 
The druid-grove, where many a reverend Yew 
Hides from his thirsty beam the noontide dew ; 
The swelling steeps of Norbury's beech-crown , d height 
Where lovely nature, tasteful art, unite 
To lure the Traveller's eye, and then detain, 
Spell-bound, and loth to leave the fair domain. 

Meanwhile I listen with attentive ear 
To catch his magic accents, as they veer 
From wit to wisdom ; his, upon whose tongue 
The fate of his lov'd Ireland oft has hung ; 
Or his, before whose philosophic eye 
The mists, that cover man's best knowledge fly ; 
Destin'd his country's glories to record, 
And give her chiefs their last and best reward. 
His too, who sings so well in Memory's praise 
That She shall ne'er forget his deathless lays, 
His, at whose bidding Science, like the Day, 
Enlightens all with an impartial ray ; 



203 

Who, lavish of his intellectual store, 
Scatters (best alms !) instruction to the poor ; 
His Ends, with sleepless energy, pursues, 
And those the noblest Ends that Man can choose. 
Or his, whom, in the Senate, modest worth 
Had raised to rank unknown to wealth or birth, 
Or his (both mute in an untimely grave* ! ) 
Wont to redress the wrong'd, protect the slave, 
Arraign the Greatest guilty ; or persuade 
Stern Law to sheathe her sanguinary blade. 

With such to live the envied lot be mine, 
Pleased for the few the many to resign : 
Blest in the esteem of such, and self-respect 
More precious still, how vain the world's neglect ! 
How vain its honours ! oft too dearly bought, 
And worth the having only when unsought. 

Ah ! " hopes too fondly nurs'd, too rudely crost." 
Even now I mourn for some for ever lost, 
Not only mine, but their sad country's boast. 

Not long I weep, to follow I prepare, 
I would not be the last that heav'n shall spare ; 

* Added in 1819. 



204 

Still some are left me, long in friendship tried, 

Whose converse cheers me, and whose counsels guide. 

Lov'd too by those departed, and, in fame, 

In genius, equal — equal, not the same ; 

With these I ask life's few last hours to spend; 

Then calmly meet, nor wish'd, nor fear'd, its end. 



EPISTLE 



TO A VERY YOUNG LADY, 



BADEN BADE, 1821, 



^07 



V. 



Behold, dear Girl, at your request, 
A letter to yourself addrest, 
And written, as you wished, in rhyme, 
And dated from a foreign clime. 

For now, once more, abroad I roam 
In search of what I leave at home, 
Pleasure — which follow'd loves to fly, 
But waited for, still hovers nigh. 
And yet I go, and go alone : 
Perhaps by penance to atone 
For follies past, of ancient date, 
Having committed none of late. 

But ah ! I see your well-known smile, 
And hear you laughing too the while : 
Though 'tis a gentle voice I hear, 
That only jests, and cannot jeer. 

No matter why — the sea I crost, 
Not sick, though somewhat rudely tost : 



208 

And now am posting up the Rhine, 
Fam'd for old castles and old wine ; 
Thanks to my light caleche which steals 
Onward on yet unbroken wheels ; 
Though jolting, shaking my poor bones, 
O'er the rough pave 's rattling stones, 
Or grating gravel by the side, 
When leave by ruts is not denied. 

How one gets on 'tis hard to say, 
Still for the cattle doom'd to stay ; 
Some carrying hay, the others hired, 
They must be fed too, and are tired : 
The small third horse (their right by law) 
That will look back, and will not draw ; 
The trace and bridle of old rope 
Sure soon to break, and balk your hope : 
In vain you cry " Well now we're gone," 
The driver's off as soon as on ; 
Still something in the tackle wrong ; 
This is too short, and that too long. 
In vain you threaten, coax, or bribe 
This smoking, dozing, self-wiU'd tribe, 
Proud of the terrors of the whip, 
The huge moustachio on the lip, 



209 

The high-cock'd hat, and tasselFd horn, ' 
They hear you — but they hear with scorn : 
And when to the town-gate you get 
Thinking to enter—" Hold"—" Not yet" 
A thousand questions you must answer, 
" Or to get in you have no chance Sir !" 
As — what you are, and what's your name, 
Whither you're going, whence you came ; 
" Your passport Sir" — Heav'ns ! that's mislaid, 
Yourself you absolve, your man upbraid, 
" Of sense he surely is bereft,'' 
You wonder " where it can be left," 
Then search and search, and (humbled) find it, 
Just in the very place assign'd it. 

Fam'd Heidelberg I reach at last, 
Repaid for toil, and dangers, past : 
The prying custom-house at Dover : 
The long, or stormy passage over, 
The favourite packet t'other side, 
And that one sails in losing tide ; 
The capering boat that comes from Calais 
To wet you through and spoil your valise : 
Then through the surf the ride astraddle, 
A Frenchman's shoulders for your saddle. 



210 

But thanks to Watt, the gale may blow, 
The restless tide may ebb or flow, 
Self-mov'd the fire-fraught vessel flies, 
Heedless of adverse seas and skies. 

But lo ! what sudden visions rise 
Before my charm'd, my dazzled eyes ! 
What awful Ruins, high in air, 
The subject mountains proudly bear ! 
Of Gothic kings the ancient home, 
The unconquer'd foes of baffled Rome, 
And now believ'd their dwelling-place, 
Though lost by their degenerate race ; 
For oft, with solemn, wild affright, 
Unearthly sounds, at dead of night, 
Are heard along the mouldering walls 
Of these unroof'd, deserted, halls ; 
While armed Statues lie around 
Prostrate and humbled, on the ground ! 

With what delight these paths I tread, 
And trace the footsteps of the dead ! 
The terraces and gardens fair ! 
Where many a flower still scents the air, 
Once throng'd by those who grac'd the Court ; 
By Dames, and Peers, of lofty port ; 



211 

Still to the way-worn pilgrim clear : 
The lovelorn bard still lingers here, 
And listens to the funeral cry 
Of night-birds, wailing as they fly. 
And still, at eve, each holy-day 
Here crowd the pensive and the gay ; 
These bowery steeps ascending slow 
From the tower'd City, far below. 
Yet wherefore climb the arduous height ? 
And quit that valley of delight ? 
Beside yon rocky mountain-stream 
Well may the youthful Poet dream, 
The traveller pause, the idler stray, 
Unconscious of the waning day, 
And mark the proud sail bending low 
Beneath the humble arch to flow ; 
The jointed raft, now, snake-like, glide, 
Now dart impetuous down the tide : 
The unwieldy barge, o^rladen, creep, 
Scarce floating on the murmuring Deep : 
In each calm bay reflected far 
The crimson West, the unquench'd star : 
Or on the hills the cottage-light 
Appear, and vanish from the sight : 

p 2 



212 

Then, home returning, seek again 
The cheerful haunts of busy men. 

Could Britain (heav'n forbid it !) barter 
For aught on earth, her freedom's charter, 
Or change, through wantonness or fear, 
Those laws that she should most revere, 
Self-banish'd I could be content 
Here, with a few, to pitch my tent, 
Here, end my days, and bless my lot, 
Forget the past, and be forgot. 

Sweet Baden too, that seat of pleasure ! 
Where monarchs spend their hard-earn'd leisure, 
And (more attractive guests) the fair, 
Whose smiles a crowd of suitors share ; 
How shall my verse, so rude, so weak, 
Presume thy countless charms to speak? 
Thy groves and glens, thy lawns and hills ; 
The virtues of thy fuming rills : 
Thy castled heights, thy gay chateau, 
Its caverns, dark and deep below : 
The bright fantastic spires that crown 
The steeps of thy aspiring town : 
Thy shelter'd paths, with many a seat, 
Where the shy strangers fear to meet, 






213 

And scarcely dare each other note, 
Though neighbours at the table d'hote, 
The morning walk, the ride by day, 
At night the bath, the ball, the play. 

Yet here, ev'n here, is wanting still 
Somewhat the craving heart to fill. 
Of those I love if one were here, 
One only, my lone steps to cheer, 
Wert thou but leaning on my arm 
All, all would more than doubly charm : 
The groves in brighter hues would glow, 
The streams in sweeter murmurs flow. 
Still more were she our walks to share, 
Who, with a more than mother's care, 
Thy tender years from harm protects, 
Thy manners forms, thy mind directs ; 
Or he, so near in blood allied, 
Once my companion, now my guide : 
Or others, easily divin'd, 
To me so dear, to me so kind. 

Farewell ! I leave ye with regret 
Ye scenes that I may ne'er forget ! 
Far wilder those to which I go, 
Mountains, and vales of summer-snow : 



214 



Now too, with compliments to friends ; 
This long and dull epistle ends ; 
For I am tired, and so are you, 
Adieu, my dearest Ward, adieu 1 



EPISTLE 

TO A FRIEND. 



INSPRUCK, 1821. 



217 



VI. 

To thee my old, my valued friend 
Health from the Tyrol hills I send. 
Oh ! that I had the power to grant 
The only blessing thou canst want, 
Health ! of heav'n's gifts almost the best, 
Without it what are all the rest ? 

Come quit with me the world of care,. 
And breathe this salutary air. 
That world together we began ; 
Its toilsome race together ran ; 
Together let us seek repose, 
And husband life, so near its close : 
Fanning the embers of that fire, 
Which else might unawares expire. 
But no ! — 'tis still thy praise to find 
The joys that suit thy vigorous mind 
In scenes of energy, not ease, 
(The joys that on reflection please,) 



218 

From a lov'd wife and children round : 
Of all delights the sweetest found ! 
From affluence and from honour gain'd 
By arduous duties well-sustain'd ; 
From gratitude for harms represt, 
For rights maintain'd, and wrongs redrest 

But yet my friend there is a time 
(Believe the truth though told in rhyme) 
When life should not be spent too fast, 
But be economis'd to last. 

Of Time (so short at best !) aware 
How little I can have to spare, 
All cares, save duties, I decline, 
And ev'n ambition now resign. 
But little miss'd I freely roam, 
Leaving a solitary home : 
Yet oft of those that most I prize 
The well-known forms around me rise ; 
Still when my evening-walk is o'er, 
My inn regain'd, and closed my door, 
My winged thoughts delight to stray 
O'er land and sea, far, far away : 
Some face I see, some voice I hear, 
By absence rendered doubly dear. 



219 

And in sweet visions pass the night, 
Chas'd only by the unwelcom'd light. 

The day returns : yet still I seem, 
Though broad awake, as much to dream : 
So strange the sights that then appear, 
So strange the accents that I hear. 

Behold the Stork ascend to perch 
On the green spire of yon tall church ! 
Which, like each house, is storied o'er 
With tales of legendary lore : 
The dragon vanquished by the knight : 
The monk that fiends in vain would fright ; 
Who prays, though fires around him rise, 
To her that beckons from the skies : 
The Giant-form of aspect mild, 
That on his shoulder bears a child, 
And walks the water as 'twere land, 
Wielding an oak-tree in his hand : 
The Saint that bears the labourer's yoke 
And with the beggar shares his cloak, 
Or he, whose cup has power to drown 
The flames, that threat th' affrighted Town. 

But see the living motley mass ! 
The dress uncouth that marks each class ; 



220 

The bare-foot son, the bare-kneed sire, 
The hat, now tapering like the spire, 
Now broader than a broad umbrella, 
Black, white and blue, pea-green or yellow. 
The women too — but that's a task, 
That well a hundred tongues might ask, 
That well a hundred tongues might tire, 
So strange, so various, their attire. 

Contrasted thus in outward show, 
Their minds few shades of difference know ; 
Priest-ridden, ignorant, unrefin'd, 
But just, and brave, and not unkind ; 
Of each the employment, every day, 
To eat and drink and smoke and pray : 
At every hour, in every street, 
The tinkling bell and Host you meet : 
At every turn the traveller sees 
Crosses almost as thick as trees ; 
And not a little scorn it rouses 
To note more chapels built than houses ; 
Monks, Friars too, black, white, grey or brown, 
With cord, and cowl, and shaven-crown, 
With surplice, tunic, cloak or vest, 
Lazy and harmless at the best. 



221 

111 fated man ! whose doom is such 
That still too little, or too much, 
Is taught his unsuspecting youth, 
By those who scorn, or fear, the truth. 

Better, far better, of the two, 
To hold each tale devoutly true 
That priests have feignM, or beldames old 
Have taught, and trembled as they told ; 
Than in suspense be tost about 
From faith to faith, from doubt to doubt, 
Or think, if it deserve that name, 
That all from chance, from nothing, came. 

Man in foul air may draw his breath, 
Exhaust it, and he sinks in death. 
For life he needs some atmosphere, 
For health one uncorrupt and clear. 

Yet worse, far worse, th' accursed creed 
That those who err, or doubt, should bleed, 
Or suffer torture, loss, or shame, 
Because their faith is not the same, 
As Pope, or Priest, or Presbyter, 
Boasting they can, or do not, err, 
Have dared in folly, or in fraud, 
As heavVs decree to send abroad, 



222 

Blaspheming, wronging, (impious plan !) 
Their maker, God ; their brother, man. 

Hark ! hear ye not that cry so dread ? 
The living mourning for the dead — 
And see ye not yon sight of woe ? 
The dying made a public show. 
That rolling beat, that thrilling blast, 
Proclaim that one now breathes his last : 
The bloody wheel, the flaming stake, 
Failing his dauntless heart to shake, 
The irrevocable word was giv'n, 
That sends a soul to hell, or heav'n. 

Oh say, ye mourners, what the deeds, 
Unnatural, foul, for which he bleeds ? 
Just heav'n ! ye know not — all ye know 
That in yon dungeon, dark, and low, 
He groan'd in chains for many a year, 
Unheard his sigh, unseen his tear, 
And that he now lies breathless here, 
The Holy Office knows the rest, 
Their secrets never are confest : 
Haply some dogma he denied, 
To check some vile abuse he tried : 



223 

He might be evil, might be just, 
But all is darkness, and distrust. 

Not thus in England, no ! thank God ! 
There bigots wield a broken rod, 
Though smiting with an iron-hand 
Yon verdant isle's devoted land. 

Brought home thus by an episode 
I'll there take up a short abode : 
Or, to speak plainly, I think best 
To give myself, and you, some rest : 
Not without hope that this may find you 
At # # , business left behind you, 
Reclin'd beneath that ancient yew 
Whence most the landscape charms the view, 
Or strolling o'er the busy farm, 
With Jane or Sarah on your arm : 
But they, a side-saddle for their seat, 
Scamper on other people's feet, 
Up fam'd Boxhill, or MiCKLEHAM-down, 
Or to buy pins in DoRKiNG-town. 

Perchance you hear what Jane relates 
Of fair Helvetia's happy States ; 
Or of gay Paris does she speak? 
That has no Sunday in her week, 



224 

So greedy both of gain and pleasure, 

Breaking for both that day of leisure. 

Or if the sun, by some rare chance, 

Should through the clouds a moment glance, 

Then, with your lady by your side, 

Along the sheltering copse you glide, 

Or now, at eve, you sit in door, 

And turn some classic author o'er; 

One haply of the illustrious dead, 

Whom, young, together oft we read. 

But now, sometimes, to own the truth, 

It is not as it was, in youth : 

When after dinner one applies, 

The glimmering letters teaze the eyes, 

The book too is so apt to fall ! 

And then, methinks, 'tis time to call, 

As you do now, " John ! bring the light, 

" I'll go to bed' 1 — Good night ! good night ! 



EPISTLE 



TO A BROTHER. 



227 



VII. 

Oh ! that one friendly cloud would rise. 
To mitigate these burning skies ! 
Or that in some sequester'd bay 
Floating upon the wave I lay ; 
While o'er my head the branches play'd 
Of some vast oak, a sun-proof shade ! 
And gentle showers fell pattering round ; 
Beneath the leaves I'd bless the sound. 

My mind relax'd, my body too 
Thaws and " resolves itself into a dew !" 
While yet I'm visible I'll run 
From Italy's inclement sun; 
For Summer scorches hill and vale, 
Dries up the streams, and taints the gale 
Not till yon beaming orb declines, 
Thridding the last autumnal Signs, 
And in the thirsty river-bed 
The clouds of stifling dust are laid, 

q2 



228 

Yon barrier-Alps to reascend, 
And tow'rds the imperial City bend. 

As through the glittering peaks I go 
Reviv'd I tread the bracing snow : 
Each little patch of pasture green, 
Each eddying gust, tho' biting keen, 
The very mists that curling rise 
And blend the mountains with the skies, 
My pulses calm, my strength restore, 
And bid me breathe and move once more, 
Ne'er to lament, in prose or rhyme, 
The rigours of our northern clime. 
What though, now gentle, now severe, 
From point to point the breezes veer, 
And many a cloud the heavens obscure : 
From pestilence, from plague secure, 
Still nerv'd to enjoy, and broad awake, 
Our lot, so scorn'd, content we take, 
Nor envy those their heat and light 
Who sleep at noon as well as night. 

'Twas thus the rude epistle ran 
Which on the Arno I be^an : 
Now happy at your favorite Bex 
And cool, far other feelings sway, 



229 

Here grateful Memory fain would praise 

Fair Italy in living lays : 

But this demands a loftier strain, 

And I must seek her vales again ; 

Again peruse her storied walls 

In solemn temples, sumptuous halls, 

Where all the rival arts conspire 

To charm, to touch, and to inspire. 

Ah ! hapless land where prince and priest 
And stranger- tyrants (" last not least") 
Thy rights deny, thy arms deride, 
And, in the fulness of their pride, 
Or jealous of thy former fame, 
Would rob thee of thy very name. 

Oh ! when will the avenger rise ? 
Touch'd by his country's stifled cries, 
(Not loud, but such as those can hear 
To whom their country still is dear) 
And, gathering round him host on host, 
From the Alps to far Calabria's coast, 
Lay, by one bold resistless blow, 
Never to rise, the oppressor low ? 

The Usurper fled, behold once more 
Freedom thy arts and arms restore ! 



230 

But, ere that hour of bliss return, 
Thy humbled, scatter'd Sons must earn, 
Must bravely earn their liberty ; 
First be victorious, then be free ! 
That blessing must their courage nerve, 
Which to desire is to deserve : 
Old feuds they must forget, forgive, 
And as one mighty people live, 
Then shall the world allow their claim 
To more than ev'n their ancient fame. 

Not yet ! — still holds the vile intrigue, 
Self-nam'd, in fraud, The Holy League ! 
No bigot-folly, but far worse, 
Of heav'n the mockery, earth the curse : 
For though the scepter'd Robbers scorn 
Each his confederate, yet " they've sworn' - 
They " have an oath in heav'n" and must 
(Good men !) be impious and unjust. 

Once, by the grateful world confest, 
Here was a refuge for the opprest. 
But now, in vain the Patriot flies 
From his lov'd home, and native skies ; 
In vain of broken faith complains, 
Dragg'd back to death, or, worse, to chains. 



Great as thou art, my country, thou 
Canst scarce protect the stranger now ! 
In secret fetter'd to their cause 
The Despots dictate ev'n thy laws # . 
But, thanks to heav'n ! there is a Land 
Above their influence, or command, 
Virtuous their maxims to despise, 
And strong their violence to chastise. 
Haste ! weigh the anchor, spread the sail 
Wide to the welcome eastern gale : 
Still, still the setting sun pursue ; 
Driv'n from the old world seek the new : 
There fear no more the Exile knows, 
But from his hunters finds repose, 
His own, his country's wrongs proclaims, 
And safe, the baffled tyrant shames. 

Yet blame not this just people still, 
It is their weakness, not their will, 
That yields consent to those that hate, 
And fain would crush each unking'd state. 
O'er-look this blemish, and once more 
The wonders of this land explore : 

* The Nation has resumed its ancient generosity and independ- 
ence, 1824, 



232 

Beheld with rapture, left with pain, 
Yet felt more deeply seen again, 
Than when at first, with hurried pace, 
Surpris'd, subdued, these scenes we trace. 
To loftier heights the hills aspire ; 
In deeper gloom the glens retire ; 
With sweeter sounds the waters flow, 
More brightly their reflections glow. 

For who can, self-possest, behold 
The visions these wild vales unfold ? 
The mountains of eternal snow ? 
The abyss of rifted ice below ? 
The bridge that springs from rock to rock, 
And trembles to the torrent's shock ? 
The fearful pass, whose cliffs between 
A line of sky is scarcely seen ? 
The liquid crystal of the rill 
That gushes from the rocky hill ? 
The inland sea, now calm in sleep, 
Now, waken'd, an o'erwhelming deep? 

Here first, long since, at your request, 
I came, and found delight and rest ; 
And now with joy my o'er-travell'd feet, 
Return to this belov'd Ptetreat : 






233 

Where, on the loud tumultuous Rhone 
From dawn to dark I muse alone ; 
Or listen to the vesper-bell 
Echoing through many a craggy dell : 
Or, as the soft green lawn I tread, 
While chestnuts flower above my head, 
The far-off Leman Lake descry, 
Fair mirror of the changeful sky ! 
Now silvery-smooth, now sparkling gold : 
Or, o'er the humbler Alps, behold 
Those glowing Peaks that long detain 
The sun's last rays, tho' dark the Plain, 
Then, pale and wan in the cold night-air, 
Look like the ghosts of what they were : 
Or mark with awe the mouldering towers, 
That tell of long-departed hours ; 
Or cliffs that guard the little gate ; 
Frail barrier between State and State ! 

More charm' d from hour to hour — and yet 
With far more pleasure than regret, 
Homeward at length my steps I turn ; 
My eyes for other objects yearn : 
The fire-side circle, small and dear, 
Narrowing, ah narrowing every year ! 



234 

The chosen, or the neighbour-friend, 
The servant pleas'd and proud to attend ; 
The well-known door, and even the bed, 
On which, so oft reclin'd, my head 
Sweet rest has found, or vainly sought 
Through the long night of troubled thought. 

How slowly, eager to arrive, 
I think the dull postilions drive ! 
The leagues seem longer, and the pave 
Is surely grown more rough and heavy: 
Yet haply 'tis in vain I haste, 
Doom'd, as before, whole days to waste 
Pacing till night on Calais-pier, 
Invoking winds that will not hear ; 
While not a packet dares to sail, 
Aw'd by the equinoctial gale ; 
Still looking o'er to that white shore 
Where I so long to tread once more. 
E'en now in thought I spring to land, 
And grasp o'erjoy'd a brother's hand. 



EPISTLE 

TO A FRIEND AT HIS VILLA. 



CHAMOUNY, 1823. 



237 



VIII. 

At length you fly from smoke and noise 
To wholesome air, and tranquil joys, 
From Route and Ball, from Park and Play, 
(Day turn'd to night, and night to day,) 
To cheerful rides at morning-hours, 
And evening-walks 'mid shrubs and flowers, 
Where broad, and bright, the stately Thames 
From the charm'd guest due homage claims ; 
As o'er its wave the white sail glides, 
Or the swift steam-boat stems the tides. 

But ah ! the Town diffuses far 
Its gloomy atmosphere of care ; 
The murmurs of its strife assail 
The peace of each surrounding vale : 
O'er many a mile must toil the feet 
That seek an undisturb'd retreat : 
Its pride and vanity are wont 
The meek and humble to affront, 



238 

And, though forbidden to oppress, 
To make them think their little less. 

But you, who all its stores command 
Yet its temptations can withstand : 
Its pleasures quit without regret, 
And quickly all its cares forget. 
More timorous I for safety run, 
And wisely the rough conflict shun. 

Once more amid th' eternal snows 
The frozen Alps around me close, 
Though flames the summer-sun on high, 
Just seen athwart the narrow sky ; 
The beam of fire, the whelming rain, 
Beat on these ice-built rocks in vain : 
For reconciled the Seasons here 
Dance hand in hand throughout the year 
In this disorder, these extremes, 
As if in sport wild Nature seems 
To scorn restraint, and break all laws ; 
Alarm'd we fly to her great Cause, 
And, awed though tranquillised, we hail 
The goodness that can never fail 
Of Him, who all these wonders plann'd, 
And in whose presence here we stand, 



Who gave us (grateful let us kneel !) 
Eyes to discern, and hearts to feel. 

Let then th' aerial spire arise, 
And tower on tower invade the skies ; 
On clustering shafts the proud dome raise ; 
With gems and gold the walls emblaze ; 
Bid Art with Truth wage generous strife, 
And soften marble into life : 
Then consecrate, in pomp, the pile, 
While wondering angels gaze and smile ; 
Here are his temples, here his court ! 
Hither the Pilgrim should resort ; 
Not cross the desert's burning sands 
To bow at altars built by hands, 
Nor to Loretto's shrine repair, 
Though Spirits bore it through the air. 

Nurs'd in these scenes sublime, severe, 
The wild, but pious Mountaineer 
Learns their great Author to revere : 
Gentle, though ever prone to dare, 
And, when the need is, firm to bear, 
>Tis his to extort by patient toil 
His hard fare from a churlish soil : 



240 

Through pathless hills to guide, and save 

The wanderer from a sudden grave. 

Or, on his pike-staff bounding high, 

From rock to rock, o'er torrents fly : 

Or, cowering, on his knees to creep 

Along the ridge of some tall steep, 

Chasing the Chamois — " dreadful calling ;" 

Ever 'mid sights, and sounds appalling ; 

Above ! the avalanche ! — below ! 

The crevasse in the treacherous snow ! 

Where Death lurks, waiting for his prey, 

Watching the hunter on his way. 

The path breaks down — Behold he falls ! 

In vain to climb the glassy walls 

He strives, and strives : — he shouts in vain, 

Far far from all the haunts of men ; 

Deep in the narrow chasm he lies, 

No more to see the cheerful skies ; 

Not one of all his soul holds dear 

To close his eyes, or dress his bier : 

Unknown his burial-place, though guess 'd 

Alas ! too truly, all the rest : 

They search, but find not. He must lie 

For ever hid from human eye. 



241 

Yet bites not there the insulting worm, 
Even Time respects his manly form : 
He still shall sleep, unchanged, tho' lost, 
Embalm'd in everlasting frost. 

Alive that manly form could please, 
Though clad in undy'd robe of frieze. 
Heav'ns ! how unlike the half-sex'd Beau, 
Screw'd in new stays for Rotten-row! 
With tiny coat, but huge cravat, 
Rings, seals, and glasses, and "all that!" 
Enough — Farewell ! with higher matter 
'Tis wrong to blend truth so like satire. 



EPISTLE 

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 



ROME, 1823. 



r2 



245 



IX. 



Lur'd by thy verse, behold once more 
Thy friend fair Italy explore ! 
And though, by suffering taught, I shun 
Her unrelenting summer-sun, 
Yet now I woo his beams, to cheer 
The gloom of an expiring year : 
Where, 'mid the ruins round her spread, 
Rome lifts on high her mitred head, 
Once circled by the imperial crown, 
To which a subject-world bow'd down. 

Now weak tho' reverend, in decay 
She scarcely claims her ancient sway ; 
But begs a little homage, paid 
Less to the living than the dead, 
Whose honour'd tombs, now mouldering round, 
Can consecrate the very ground. 

Palace and dome scarce heeded rise, 
More sees the memory than the eyes. 



246 

Yet here (the work of modern hands) 
In state, the noblest temple stands, 
That to his great Creator's praise 
The piety of man could raise : 
Here too, like breathing nature warm, 
Dwells many a bright, angelic Form, 
Hewn from the rock by matchless skill, 
Once Gods, and almost worshipp'd still ! 
And here the pencil's magic hues 
Their spells along the walls diffuse, 
Calling saints, heroes, from the grave, 
Again to teach, again to save. 

Th' eternal city as I trace 
The present to the past gives place : 
The Spirits of the Dead appear, 
And sounds divine transport my ear ; 
I listen, heedless of the throng, 
To Tully's speech, or Maro's song. 
Now, winding through the sculpturM arch 
Behold the long triumphal march : 
Or mark the warrior-horseman leap 
Fearlessly down the yawning deep ; 
Or him, who, singly, dares oppose 
(Striding the bridge) a host of foes, 



247 

Now, shuddering, the stern consul see 

His rebel sons to death decree ; 

Or, in the Senate, hail the blow, 

That lays the great Usurper low. 

But who, on thrones, in robes of state 

Silently sit, and smile at Fate ? 

The Conscript-sires-^-though fierce and rude 

The Conqueror is himself subdued, 

Drops the red spear, and bends the knee, 

Esteeming each a Deity ! 

Oh ! how in latter life it cheers 
To triumph o'er the power of years ! 
Calm'd not exhausted to perceive 
That we can feel, admire, believe 
E'en to the last, as in our prime, 
Spite of the malice of old Time. 
Not more our joy, than pride, to know 
That the chill'd blood again can glow ; 
That Fancy still has wings to soar 
High as she oft was wont before : 
And Hope still listens to her song, 
As erst when credulous and young : 
That there are vales where smiling Spring 
Is lovelier than the poets sing; 



248 

And Nature's bright realities 
Transcend what Painting can devise : 
Where May can trust, in field and bower, 
Her blossoms to the morning-hour, 
Nor dreads the venomous East should breathe, 
To blight the flowerets in her wreath ; 
Where scarcely swells a bud in vain 
Of blushing fruit, or golden grain. 

Alas ! fair Land ! that thy rich dower, 
Should ever be the prize of power. 
Yielded to Vandal, Moor, or Gaul, 
Or Bigot-sloth, far worse than all ! 
Oh Grief! that blessings too profuse 
Should turn to curses by th 1 abuse ; 
That Virtue, Freedom, still must fly 
For shelter to a frozen sky ! 

Like gold all Good requires alloy^ 
We learn by suffering to enjoy. 

Once thy possessors, great in arms, 
Defended, and deservM thy charms. 
Well taught (alas ! in times gone by) 
Bravely to conquer, or to die. 
Then the rude Hun rough welcome found, 
And with his bones manur'd the ground, 



249 

Though now his haughty banner waves 
High o'er his vanquish'd fathers' graves. 
Now must thy humbled sons regret, 
The present bear, the past forget, 
Blush when they hear their fathers' fame, 
And hide in smiles their grief and shame ; 
Not long — soon shall the smouldering fire, 
Explode in thunder, or expire ; 
Oh ! not the last ! — in vain they dare 
(The crown'd conspirators) to share 
The earth between them, as their prey 
Willing to suffer and obey. 
As soon shall they forbid the sun, 
Save at their will, his course to run, 
Arrest the ocean-tides, or bind 
The pinions of the wandering wind. 

What though of much the Land's bereft, 
Enough to regain all is left ! 
Art, Science, Letters still survive 
The Liberty that bade them thrive : 
And many a poet of high name 
Upholds his country's former fame. 
Thy latest theme ; well chos'n by thee 
The bard inspir'd by Memory ! 



250 

And greatly shall thy lasting lay 
Her hospitality o'erpay : 
Long long the rival to remain 
Ev'n of her noblest native strain, 



EPISTLE 

TO THE LORD HOLLAND, 



Feros mollite colendo." 

Geor. ii. 36, 



WINDERMERE, 182Q. 



253 



X. 



Ask not what charms there are in scenes like these, 
Wild hills and clamorous brooks and inland-seas ! 
In the sweet face of nature to delight 
Will not in thee surprise or scorn excite. 

But 'tis not only mountain, lake and stream, 
(Though here as fair as a young poet's dream) 
No ! here a generous Peasantry we find, 
Of graceful form and cultivated mind : 
Here, too, a Gentry that may well preside 
O'er men thus gifted and not void of pride. 
To them the earth her annual tribute yields 
As Lords, not tenants, of their native fields : 
Yet to their sons the sires bequeathed far more 
Than land, herd, flock, and heaps of glittering ore : 
In every village, schools, though rude, they rear'd, 
It was not want but ignorance they fear'd ; 
And of their little largely gave to ensure 
Their children's children should be taught tho' poor. 



254 

Blest be their memory I what is Man untaught ? 
Unfit alike for action, or for thought ; 
Selfish and wretched, ignorant and unjust ; 
And now by hunger goaded, now by lust : 
Fraudful not wise, revengeful but not brave, 
Savage a tyrant, civilised a slave : 
Much like the brutes that groan beneath his sway, 
A beast of burthen, or a beast of prey. 

Rare though the plant may be and kind the soil, 
The fruit is worthless unimproved by toil : 
But tended, train'd through sunshine, gust and shower, 
The weed's transformed into a radiant flower. 

Hard, hard indeed is woman's ceaseless task ! 
E'en from the cradle all her cares we ask : 
Cares that a mother only can bestow; 
A task that only love will undergo ! 
All must be learnt and most 'tis hers to teach ; 
The foot to step, the lip to move in speech. 
See ! now disdainful of her proffer'd hand, 
The ambitious boy essays, in vain, to stand ! 
And hark ! the little mimic lisps her name, 
Vain of success, but failing tinged with shame ! 
With thoughts and feelings heart and mind she sows, 
And plucks each weed that still, unbidden, blows. 



255 

Beyond this world too she extends her care, 
And on her knee unites his hands in prayer. 

Soon stronger, bolder, from her arms he flies, 
Proud to alarm her fears and to despise ; 
Now at his father's heels, where'er he strays, 
He learns his sayings and affects his ways : 
Then come the school, the college, rivals, friends, 
And but with life man's education ends. 

All must conspire — yet all conspire in vain, 
Unless the State be just, the Church humane : 
'Tis from the cherish'd Faith and dreaded Law 
That men their maxims learn, their motives draw, 
Govern'd by fraud or force a People must 
Be, or become, unfeeling and unjust. 
What can avail the nursery and the school, 
Should priests misguide or magistrates misrule ? 
To whom can helpless youth, perplext, repair 
Should precept and example both ensnare ? 
Setting their busiest hopes and fears at strife 
With the pure lessons of their early life, 
Can they esteem their good old teachers wise, 
Whom thus the learned and the great despise ? 
Or love their God and neighbour as they ought, 
Should falsehood as the truth from heav'n be taught ? 



256 

If endless bliss be promised as the meed 
Of bigot-zeal, or a presumptuous creed ? 
And all the terrors of a future world 
Against the best men found in this be hurl'd ? 

But lo ! the clouds disperse, the horizon clears ! 
The sun of science thro' the mist appears ; 
Pierc'd by its beams the brood obscene of night, 
With shrieks and murmurs fly the hated light! 
Long since from this blest isle the foulest fled, 
A loathsome Band, by Superstition led : 
And the scar'd Demons of the lagging rear 
Rise on the wing, soon, soon to disappear. 

Knowledge of old in one deep current streamM, 
While on its banks the narrow harvest teem'd : 
All else a thirsty waste of shifting sand, 
Or curs'd by weeds that chok'd th' uncultur'd land. 
But now fresh rills break out on every side, 
Diffusing health and pleasure as they glide, 
Flowing thro' town and city, village, farm, 
And lending each a blessing and a charm. 

The prophecy's fulfill'd, the poor are taught ; 
Home to each door the precious gift is brought, 
Truth, to exalt and purify the mind, 
For, where truth comes virtue's not far behind. 




257 

Distrustful are the ignorant, fierce, self-will'd, 
Fickle, yet fix'd their judgments ne'er to yield, 
Seditious, servile, rash, yet wanting nerve, 
Easy to dupe, but very hard to serve. 

Not thus th' instructed, for though, haply, proud 
When self-compar'd to the benighted crowd) 
Yet have they ears to learn and eyes to see 
Their duty, dealt with as men ought to be. 

Rarely, if ever, is good given to man 
Unmix'd with evil, such is HeavVs high plan ! 
Yet can there still remain one generous doubt 
Whether a People with sense, or without, 
Is happier, better, less disposed to err, 
Or which an honest statesman must prefer ? 

Oh ! His a pleasant dream (if dream it be), 
Of man the brightening prospects to foresee : 
Far more of Nature shall he daily know ; 
Far mightier o'er her powers his mastery grow. 
How many evils shall become more light ! 
How many more, perhaps, be banish'd quite ! 
How many comforts added to the store 
That bounteous Providence had given before ! 
Not to the selfish, indolent and blind, 
Who trust whate'er they wish to beg, or find, 

s 



258 

But only to the wise, who can discern 
That we are born our happiness to earn. 

'Tis well that most are for their bread, each day, 
Destin'd to toil, as well as taught to pray : 
And all, of every rank, who would enjoy, 
Must both their body and their mind employ. 

Ye who find nought to love or to admire, 
Beg, beg of niggard Nature a desire. 

Nothing is had for nothing, all is sold, 
Not to the wealthy only for their gold ; 
By strenuous action and by patient thought, 
All our best blessings ever must be bought. 

Man seldom fails to o'ertake what he pursues, 
But 'tis most rare that object well to choose. 
Could thine be wealth, wake early and watch late, 
Or, scorning dross, wouldst thou be still more great ? 
The world's reproaches and thy own despise, 
Be servile to rule others, creep to rise ; 
Or wouldst thou fame ? court Science or the Muse, 
An ardent lover neither can refuse : 
Be oftener heard in Senates, now to still, 
Now stir, their charmed Passions at thy Will. 
To be renown'd some health and life expose, 
Cross Afric's sands, or pierce the polar-snows, 



259 

Or in the Field, the bravest of the brave, 
For glory seek, and find it — in the Grave. 

Thy hopes, I know, have a far loftier aim 
Than riches, rank, vain learning, or a name : 
Of love, true honour, happiness, the price 
Is fixed, and must be given — Self-sacrifice. 
This, through thy life, has cheerfully been paid, 
And the rich recompence as freely made. 
'Tis thine the same just judgment to have shown 
Of thy lov'd Country's welfare and thy own. 
Still has it been thy fate — thy choice— to oppose 
Power and Corruption,, formidable foes ! 
And ah ! how few the victories thou hast won ! 
Yet wilt thou deem thyself o'erpaid by one *. 
The last, the most desir'd, a victory ! 
Long due to him, who still survives in thee. 

Oh ! could even now his generous Spirit feel 
For Justice, Freedom, but its ancient Zeal, 
Think with what heart-felt joy he must have view'd 
Evils that foil'd even him, by thee subdued. 
One conflict more f, and soon shall all be free, 
All, all, whate'er their Creed may chance to be. 

* Repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts, 
f Emancipation of the Catholics. 
s2 



261 



EPITAPH 



ON 



MR. HENDERSON*. 



Born to delight at once and mend the age, 

Life to adorn, and dignify the stage, 

No more, oh Henderson ! thy magic art 

Shall wake at will each passion of the heart ; 

No more thy ardour fire, thy humour cheer, 

Nor at thy bidding start the obedient tear ! 

No more shall crowds entranc'd, scarce breathing see 

The dreams of Shakspeare realiz'd by thee. 

Yet, were this all, this loss thy friends might bear, 

And ev'n with pride the general sorrow share, 

* Buried in Westminster Abbev, 3rd December, 1785. 



262 

But can they hope again, in one, to find 
Thy sense and genius, wit and worth, combin'd ? 
Where shall thy widow'd wife, thy orphan-child 
Meet love so warm, authority so mild ? 
Alas ! thy fame shall still renew their grief: 
And Time itself to them refuse relief. 



263 



THE ROSE. 



POET. 

Say, lovely Rose, so fragrant and so fair ! 
Why art thou doomM these rugged thorns to bear ? 
None sure would steal thee from thy native bower, 
Though smooth thy stem, and silken as thy flower. 

ROSE. 

Once was I a poor weed, a worthless briar; 

Till He, who tun'd thy voice, and strung thy lyre, 

Bade me these soft and blushing leaves to bear, 

And scatter perfume to the summer-air. 

For, as she fled whose love he long had sought, 

Her fluttering garments in my branches caught, 

And she was won to listen to his vows : 

When lo ! these blooms, these odours deck'd my boughs! 



264 



POET. 



Blest omen, hail ! one opening bud I'll bear 
To grace the obdurate bosom of my Fair : 
Haply he might to thy sweet breath impart 
A subtle virtue to subdue the heart — 
If such thy power I can be grateful too ; 
And thy entrancing scent, thy vermeil hue, 
And this thy story, they shall live in verse, 
And none henceforth thy guard of thorns asperse. 



265 



TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 



There was an ancient sage, I'm told, 
Who held that "man should weep/ 

The doctrine's sour as well as old, 
Not good enough to keep. 

But, for the honour of those times, 
It must be own'd, another 

Maintain' d the tenet of these rhymes, 
And scorn'd his whining brother. 

That must be true philosophy 
Which bids us smile at Care, 

Since, whether mortals laugh or cry, 
What happens they must bear. 



266 

Is there in sighs and tears a power 

To soften stubborn Fate ? 
Or add one unpredestin'd hour 

To our appointed date ? 

The turnpike-road to happiness 
Through misery leads, no doubt \ 

Though somewhat rough, you must confess, 
And rather round about. 

There is a path more smooth and near, 

Trust me, for I have tried ; 
I did not ask my way of Fear, 

Hope is a better guide. 

Companion gay ! that ever leads 

Through verdure and through flowers, 

And talks, whene'er the tempest breeds, 
Of sunshine after showers. 

Yet dwell not with her, though she toy, 

And promise fair, and woo, 
But win and wed her sister, Joy, 

Still lovelier, and more true. 




267 

Youth, like a morning vision, flies : 

Waking we sigh, in vain, 
To close once more our aching eyes, 

And dream it o'er again. 

Ah ! still, ye dear illusions, stay ! 

Still let me think ye true : 
All the poor certainties of life 

I'll gladly change for you. 

Fold, Fancy, fold thy busy wing ! 

Sleep, troubled Memory, sleep ! 
Why should one fly our cares to bring ? 

The other wake to weep ? 

Our youth seem'd short because so sweet, 
Then why should we repine ? 

Because we did our breakfast eat 
Must we refuse to dine ? 

Why should we look before, behind, 

Unless the prospect charms ? 
Draw up the window ! drop the blind ! 

Whene'er the road alarms. 



268 

The future is beyond our power, 
The past we should forget ; 

We can't afford the present hour 
Should run away in debt. 

'Tis well we yesterday thought so, 

Aware it could not stay : 
To-morrow may not come you know, 

We'll therefore live to-day. 

Let not the good, ill-taught, despise 
These maxims as too gay : 

True pleasure in well-doing lies ; 
'Tis worse than folly to delay. 



THE END. 



BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, 
(LATE T. DAVISON.) 









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